©  FROM  A 
SOUTHERN 
PORCH  O 


By    DOROTHY 
SCARBOROUGH 


THE   WORKS   OF 

OSCAR   WILDE 

Ravenna  Edition 
14    Volumes.      Uniform  In  Flexible  Leather 

THE    PICTURE   OF    DORIAN    GRAY. 
LORD   ARTHUR    SAVILE'S   CRIME, 

AND    OTHER    STORIES. 
THE    DUCHESS    OF    PADUA. 
LADY   WINDERMERE'S    FAN. 
A  WOMAN    OF   NO    IMPORTANCE. 
AN    IDEAL   HUSBAND. 

THE    IMPORTANCE   OF    BEING    EARNEST. 
A    HOUSE    OF   POMEGRANATES. 
INTENTIONS. 
ESSAYS. 

DE    PROFUNDIS   AND    PRISON    LETTERS. 
SALOME,    LA   8AINTE    COURTISANE. 
POEMS. 
VERA. 


From 
A  Southern  Porch 


By 

Dorothy   Scarborough 

Author  of  " Fugitive  Verses,"  "  The  Supernatural  in  Modera 
English  Fiction,"  etc. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 

Gbe    fmicfcerbocher    press 

1919 


COPYRIGHT.   1919 

BY 
DOROTHY  SCARBOROUGH 


Ube  ftnfcherbocber  pre0a,  Hew  J?ork 


TTO 

ALL  THOSE  ON  WHOSE  PORCHES 
I  HAVE  SPENT  PLEASANT  Houns 


FOREWORD 

BOOKS  in  abundance  have  been  written  about 
houses  and  the  people  who  live  in  them,  as  there 
are  various  volumes  concerning  gardens  and  the 
joys  of  digging  in  the  patient  earth.  But  nobody 
has  written  a  book  about  porches,  which  seems  to 
me  monstrous  ingratitude.  For  how  many  works 
of  literature  have  been  composed  on  porches  or 
inspired  by  them!  How  often  has  Pegasus  got  a 
famous  start  from  some  rocking-chair  on  a  dreamy 
veranda!  And  how  many  stodgy  books  there  are, 
which  might  have  leaped  and  run,  filled  with 
vinous  life,  if  only  they  had  been  porch- written ! 

The  porch  is  the  soul  of  a  house.  Poor  and 
spiritless  indeed  is  that  structure  which  lacks  it. 
Only  compare  a  colonial  mansion  with  its  noble 
piazza,  with  the  stooped  and  cowering  city  dwelling, 
and  judge  how  different  must  be  the  life  that  goes 
on  inside  the  two.  Small  wonder  that  city  houses, 
conscious  of  the  moral  indignity  of  their  appear 
ance,  huddle  together  in  shame  like  criminals 


vi  Jforetoorb 


seeking  to  hide  themselves  in  a  crowd.  Fancy  a 
man's  having  to  ask  of  his  own  latchkey  which  is 
his  house! — of  a  latchkey  subject,  moreover,  to 
moments  of  midnight  exhilaration  wherein  it 
mocks  its  questioner.  Imagine  going  right  into 
a  house,  with  no  gracious  lingering  on  a  porch! 
Or  of  stepping  out  of  the  door  to  find  oneself  on 
the  alien  pavement!  Such  procedure  outrages 
all  the  amenities  of  life.  True  gentility  is  in 
separable  from  a  porch.  Somewhere  in  the  past 
of  every  courtly  soul  will  be  found  a  benignant 
porch,  stretching  its  influence  over  the  years. 

This,  then,  is  a  tribute  of  love  to  porches,  and 
meant  only  for  the  eyes  of  fellow-porchers,  not  at 
all  for  the  critical  gaze  of  folk  who  sit  shut  up  in 
houses.  The  colored  people  in  Virginia  have  a 
saying  that  all  kinds  of  meat  are  to  be  found  in  the 
turtle's  flesh.  This  volume  might  be  considered 
mock-turtle's  meat,  for  it  is  a  joyous,  irresponsible 
jumble  of  things  I  like,  what  Aunt  Mandy  would 
call  "  a  mixtry."  It  has  written  itself  with  tongue 
acheek,  breaking  all  the  laws  I  know  of  unity, 
coherence,  and  continuity,  and  should  be  read  on 
a  friendly  Southern  porch. 

The  "ballets"  and  "reels"  included  here  are 
given  just  as  they  were  taken  down  from  dusky 


jforetoorb  vii 


lips  in  Texas  and  Virginia.  They  are  genuine 
negro  folk  songs,  not  "cooked"  or  edited  in  any 
way,  and,  so  far  as  I  can  learn,  have  not  been 
previously  published. 

RICHMOND,  VIRGINIA, 
July,  1919. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I. — THE  PORCHER  .         .         .         .         .         i 

II. — ENTOMOLOGY  ON  A  COUNTRY  PORCH    .       33 

III. — PORCH  REPTILES        ..         .  -73 

IV. — BIRD  STUDY  FROM  A  COUNTRY  PORCH     .     104 

V. — BOTANIZING  FROM  A  COUNTRY  PORCH       134 

VI. — A  SOUTHERN  EXPOSURE     .         .         .158 

VII. — BACK-PORCH  CALLERS         .         .         .191 

V  III. — A  LITTLE  STUDY  IN  BLACK  AND  WHITE  .     214 

IX. — EATING  ON  THE  PORCH        .         .         .     237 

X. — SLEEPING  OUT  ....     259 

XI. — PORCH  RAILLERY  281 


IX 


jfrom  a  Southern  porch 


i 

THE   PORCHER 

DURING  the  summer  I  am  a  porcher.  My 
occupation  is  not  so  bad  as  it  sounds,  however, 
being  not  at  all  burglarious,  for  I  am  not  a  climber 
but  a  sitter.  During  the  long,  delightful  summer, 
I  do  nothing  but  sit  on  a  porch  by  the  side  of  the 
road  and  watch  the  world  go  by,  what  time  I  am 
not  lying  on  a  swinging  couch.  The  verb  porch, 
not  yet  included  in  Sir  James  Murray's  otherwise 
complete  English  dictionary,  means  to  live  on  a 
porch.  According  to  etymological  analogy,  it  is 
an  impeccably  constructed  word,  and  a  porcher 
is  one  who  lives  on  a  porch.  Compare  it  with 
farmer,  rancher,  scholar,  and  so  forth,  and  you  will 
recognize  its  right  to  existence.  Porching  may 
seem  to  some  a  parlous  task,  an  occupation  in- 


Jfrom  a  g>outf)errt  $orcf) 


active,  devoid  of  thrills,  but  not  so  to  me.  It 
has  its  joys  for  those  who  know  to  snatch  them — 
and  personally,  I've  always  been  considered  a 
pretty  good  snatcher ! 

I  must  porch  steadily  in  the  summer,  because 
it  is  only  in  vacations  that  I  may  indulge  in  this 
enterprise  dear  to  my  body  and  my  soul.  In 
fall,  winter,  and  spring,  my  life  is  very  different, 
delightful,  it  is  true,  but  antipodic  to  this.  At  those 
seasons  I  live  elsewhere,  on  a  certain  densely, 
highly,  and  variously  populated  island,  but  I  do 
not  think  of  it  as  my  home.  My  real  home  could 
never  be  a  place  where  one  sits  decorously  inside 
steam-heated — or  worse  still,  not  steam-heated — 
walls.  My  soul  cries  out  for  porches,  for  rocking- 
chairs  and  white  dresses,  for  the  wide  spaces  of 
old  Virginia  gardens.  Oh,  those  gardens  of  old 
Virginia, — how  their  beauty  wrings  my  heart ! 

Torching,  in  the  real  sense  of  the  word,  cannot 
be  done  in  the  gregarious  rockers  on  hotel  piazzas, 
where  idle  women  crochet  industriously  and 
embroider  linen  and  the  truth  about  their  neigh 
bors.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  a  high  calling  apart. 
In  the  South  the  porch  is  the  true  center  of  the 
home,  around  which  life  flows  on  gently  and 
graciously,  with  an  open  reserve,  a  charming 


candor.  One  does  not  stay  inside  the  house 
more  than  is  absolutely  necessary,  for  all  such 
pleasant  occupations  as  eating  and  sleeping,  read 
ing,  studying,  working,  and  entertaining  one's 
friends  are  carried  on  on  some  companionable 
piazza  or  other.  There  are  porches  to  meet  all 
needs,  all  moods,  and  all  hours.  As  the  sun  travels, 
one  migrates  from  porch  to  porch,  though  there  are 
some  widely  shaded  verandas  that  are  inhabitable 
at  all  times.  With  numberless  porches  upstairs 
and  down,  one  can  always  find  solitude  if  one 
wishes,  or  discover  some  congenial  soul  to  talk  or 
be  silent  with. 

In  the  South,  when  a  person  plans  a  home,  he 
first  builds  a  porch,  and  then  if  he  has  any  money 
left,  he  adds  few  or  more  rooms  according  to  his 
needs,  but  the  porch  is  the  essential  thing.  One 
college  professor  that  I  know,  who  had  only  a 
limited  sum  with  which  to  build  a  home,  insisted 
that  he  must  have  at  least  a  bathroom  in  addi 
tion  to  his  veranda,  all  other  quarters  being,  if 
necessary,  dispensable.  But  the  rise  in  contrac 
tors'  prices,  with  no  corresponding  elevation  of 
professorial  salaries,  had  reduced  him  to  the 
necessity  of  relinquishing  either  the  one  or  the 
other.  Since  he  could  not  have  a  bathroom  and  a 


Jfrom  a  i£>outf)ern 


porch,  he  said  he  would  put  his  bathtub  on  his 
porch.  Even  so,  he  would  have  a  home,  for  while 
in  New  York  every  man's  house  is  his  prison,  in 
the  South  every  man's  porch  is  his  home. 

The  public  porch  is  an  ancient  thing,  but  the 
private  affair  as  part  of  the  dwelling-house,  is 
modern.  The  earliest  porticoes  are  said  by  the 
encyclopedia  to  be  the  two  at  the  Tavern  of  the 
Winds  at  Athens,  and  there  would  seem  to  have 
been  some  at  the  entrance  to  Diomedes'  villa 
outside  the  Pompeiian  gate,  though  in  Rome  (so 
my  reference  friend  asserts)  they  were  probably 
not  allowed.  No  wonder  Rome  fell!  We  know 
that  the  glory  of  Greek  culture  was  due  to  the 
fact  that  teaching  was  done  by  means  of  affable 
conversation  on  porches,  as  students  and  philoso 
pher  strolled  up  and  down.  How  much  less 
onerous  would  learning  be  to-day  if  our  colleges 
pursued  such  plans !  There  were  porches  attached 
to  the  early  churches,  which  explains  why  people 
went  to  church  oftener  then  than  now. 

But  curiously  enough,  the  public  porch  has  disap 
peared,  and  the  home-porch  risen  among  us.  It  re 
mained  for  the  moderns  to  construct  verandas  to 
houses  where  people  live,  since  it  is  only  the  moderns 
who  know  how  to  live  comfortably  and  agreeably. 


It  has  been  said  that  in  the  old  days  piazzas  had 
not  been  invented  because  people  had  no  leisure, 
but  that  we  of  to-day  are  wealthy  and  inventive 
enough  to  spend  our  time  in  happy  loafing.  An 
cient  and  medieval  life  lacked  many  of  the  fine 
points  of  knowing  how  to  live,  and  piazzas  were 
among  their  greatest  deprivations.  I  am  joyful 
that  I  was  not  born  in  a  porchless  age.  It  is 
pleasing,  also,  to  remember  that  the  household 
porch  as  we  have  it  now,  is  an  American  invention, 
a  distinctively  American  institution,  a  product 
of  our  hospitality  and  our  craving  for  the  un 
restricted  outlook,  the  far  gaze  upon  life. 

What  bliss  to  live  in  the  open,  with  a  floor  to 
protect  one  from  the  damp  and  the  dust,  and  a 
roof  to  ward  off  obtrusive  rain  and  sun!  Walls 
are  nonessential,  pure  encumbrances  to  real 
living,  the  outgrowth  of  effete  civilization.  A 
porch  is  more  than  a  mere  extension  of  a  house  in 
wood  or  stone  or  brick.  It  is  an  expansion  of  the 
soul  in  terms  of  beauty  and  light  and  breadth  of 
view.  How  different  is  the  life  lived  on  the 
porch  from  that  suffered  in  a  connecting  series  of 
little  dark  closets  in  the  city,  where  the  rooms 
are  so  small  that  they  are  but  the  outer  shell  of  the 
tenant,  who  feels  undressed  when  he  steps  out 


jfrom  a  gxratftern  $orcf) 


into  the  street!  Man  was  made  for  the  wide 
spaces  of  field  and  sky,  not  for  prisoning  cells. 
Inside  four  walls  man's  powers  are  contracted, 
but  on  a  porch  with  outlook  to  the  sun,  the  stars, 
the  wide  open,  they  are  expanded  infinitely. 

The  porch  soul  is  the  foundation  for  the  highest 
type  of  character, — the  wideness  of  spiritual 
vision,  the  joy  in  living,  the  generosity  of  nature 
found  in  people  who  live  on  porches  and  lacking  in 
natures  restricted  to  mere  houses.  Were  not  the 
hanging  gardens  of  Babylonia  one  form  of  porches, 
giving  beauty  and  joy  to  those  creating  them? 
And  were  not  the  great  Biblical  characters  in  the 
habit  of  spending  their  time  on  open  roofs  equiva 
lent  to  our  upstairs  verandas?  Think  how  the 
porch  balcony  in  Italy  has  romanticized  litera 
ture  and  life!  Consider  the  apartment  houses  in 
Paris  which  are  so  constructed  that  each  tenant 
may  have  his  little  veranda, — and  the  French 
custom  of  dining  on  the  sidewalk  is  but  an  ex 
tension  of  the  porch  ideas.  Those  countries  have 
the  porch  soul.  The  Spanish  patio  and  the  Eng 
lish  walled  garden  have  the  requisite  uplook,  of 
course,  but  they  lack  the  broad  view  which  a  real 
piazza  gives. 

But    compare    with    these   genial   nations    the 


Turks,  for  instance,  where  life  is  walled-in  alto 
gether,  and  where  no  woman  may  rock  on  her 
own  porch  in  the  open  and  enjoy  free  air  and 
society.  The  haremlik  is  an  emblem  of  the 
porchless  soul.  And  have  the  Germans  porches? 
No!  The  imperial  palaces  in  which  the  Kaiser 
lived  his  autocratic  life  were  porchless,  so  that  he 
had  no  means  of  sensing  the  actual  life  outside. 
The  real  cause  of  the  great  war  is  the  absence 
of  porches  in  Germany.  One  cannot  have  the 
proper  inlook  unless  he  has  an  outlook,  since  a 
vista  is  necessary  for  the  true  formation  of  char 
acter.  Beware  the  man  who  never  has  a  far  gaze ! 
A  porch  gives  a  look  of  repose  and  serenity  to  a 
house  because  it  indicates  the  porch  soul. 

Fancy  a  porch  in  the  early  morning,  when  the 
flowers  have  fresh-washed  faces,  when  the  dust  is 
laid  by  the  dew,  when  the  happy  stir  of  life  goes 
on  all  about.  I  can  see  so  much  from  my  porch 
here  in  the  country,  which  is  yet  near  enough 
to  the  city  to  witness  all  sorts  of  people  pass. 
Sprawly  puppies  are  worrying  each  other  on  the 
newly  cut  grass,  darkeys  are  singing  in  the  near-by 
fields  as  they  hoe  corn,  two  jaybirds  are  quarrel 
ing  on  the  gravel  walk,  uttering  profane  synonyms 
at  each  other,  and  a  hen  wanders  across  a  flower- 


8  Jfrom  a  &>outfjern 


bed,  calling  her  offspring  with  stern  duckings,  in 
response  to  which  the  brood  breaks  after  her, 
scrambling  and  chirping  like  an  agitated  omelet. 
I  can  see  a  black  woman  going  by  on  the  road,  a 
basket  of  clothes  balanced  on  her  head,  —  swaying 
but  never  in  danger  of  falling.  Groups  of  laugh 
ing,  gay  young  negroes  pass  by  to  their  work  or  to 
errands  in  town.  Little  boys,  as  black  as  the 
berries  they  have  in  their  buckets  for  sale,  are  on 
their  way  to  market.  An  old  mule  ambles  rest- 
fully  down  the  road,  drawing  a  cart  that  creaks 
with  rheumatism  and  years,  and  that  has  one 
hind  wheel  at  an  alarming  angle  with  the  body 
of  the  cart.  But  the  driver,  an  ebony  antique,  is 
unagitated,  and  the  animal  at  ease  of  mind.  Not 
for  any  inducement  would  that  mule  quicken  his 
pace.  Autos  from  the  city  whirl  by  with  sophis 
ticated  snorts  and  honk-honks,  raising  resentful 
dust  in  whorls. 

In  case  I  wish  to  write,  I  can  do  so  lounging 
luxuriously  in  a  swinging  couch,  with  a  pair  of 
wrens  in  the  nest  under  the  eaves  above  me  giving 
me  warbly  assistance,  and  with  a  foxhound  puppy 
licking  my  idle  hand.  A  chipmunk  creeps  out 
and  runs  along  the  low  stone  wall  near  by,  at  the 
crest  of  the  hill,  and  sits  watching  me  to  see  if  I 


mean  well.  A  mocking  bird  that  has  a  nest  in  the 
Cherokee  rose-vine  near  by  the  tulip  poplar  tree,  is 
singing  divinely,  pouring  out  liquid  light  and  danc 
ing  melody  and  dreams  set  to  music  that  may  never 
be  imitated.  I  pause  with  my  pencil  dropping 
from  my  hand,  for  how  can  one  but  listen  to  that 
joyous  bird?  I  think  I'd  choose  to  be  a  mocking 
bird  in  my  next  incarnation  rather  than  anything 
else,  because  I've  always  so  longed  to  sing  and  have 
not  been  able  to  in  this  life. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  porch  are  opportunities 
for  study  of  human  nature.  The  young  people  of 
the  household  bring  their  friends  there.  Lucia  is 
usually  there  with  one  or  more  of  her  visitors, 
and  in  the  afternoons  and  evenings  there  are  likely 
to  be  various  callers.  Lucia  is  a  distant  cousin 
of  the  household,  who  has  come  up  from  Alabama 
to  pay  a  visit,  a  summer-long  visit,  of  the  sort 
girls  pay  in  the  South, — yet  which  we  feel  will  be 
all  too-short  in  this  case.  Lucia  is  the  kind  of 
girl  for  whom  everybody  likes  to  do  things, — 
particularly  trousered  everybody — and  does  them 
in  one's  best  way,  feeling,  moreover,  that  one's 
best  is  not  good  enough  for  her. 

Lucia  has  had  many  admirers  since  she  came. 
Many  call  but  none  are  chosen,  it  appears,  though 


io  Jfrom  a 


two  in  particular,  the  Doctor  and  the  Professor, 
have  a  persistence  worthy  of  a  better  cause,  Lucia 
says,  that  would  doubtless  mean  success  in  any 
undertaking  not  dependent  upon  feminine  emo 
tion.  Porch  courtships  are  entertaining  to  the 
observer,  but  I  have  other  things  enspiriting  to 
watch,  so  that  I  give  only  half  an  eye  and  ear  to 
the  other  end  of  the  porch,  and  with  the  other 
fractions  realize  the  wonders  about  me.  , 

There  is  so  much  to  see  that  I  wish  for  a  hundred 
eyes.  The  friendly  road  with  all  its  travelers 
attracts  me,  for  it  is  a  restful  thing  to  watch  other 
people  going  about  their  busy  affairs,  while  I  loaf 
in  the  shade.  The  birds  think  these  tall  trees, 
this  woody  lawn,  their  sanctuary,  for  they  fly 
and  sing  at  will,  minding  me  no  more  than  if  I 
were  one  of  them.  If  I  notice  carefully  I  can  see 
the  roses  open  in  the  sun,  and  fancy  what  their 
thoughts  must  be  about  this  gay  green  world.  The 
yellow  lilies  nod  wisely  to  each  other,  day-dream 
ing  perhaps  of  the  dark  forest  from  which  they 
were  brought  to  bloom  in  this  garden.  Perhaps 
they  once  blossomed  for  Indian  maids  long  ago. 
The  white  butterflies  float  in  the  sun,  now  singly, 
now  in  groups,  now  lighting  on  the  blossoms  of  the 
clover  that  sends  its  pink  perfume  into  the  warm  air. 


$orcter  n 


Then  there  is  the  back  porch,  a  wonder-place  in 
which  to  sit  in  the  cool  mornings.  Sprangly  oaks 
and  upright  poplars  shade  it,  and  the  grass  grows 
greenly  to  the  very  doorsteps.  Here  Mose,  the 
colored  gardener,  he  of  the  excessive  pigmentation 
and  the  white-toothed  smile,  brings  baskets  of 
vegetables  and  fruits,  which,  if  I  am  so  minded, 
I  may  help  prepare  for  canning.  Work  on  a 
porch  is  never  like  real  work,  because  one's  tools 
drop  constantly  from  one's  lazy  hands,  the  while 
one  watches  a  squirrel  frisk  by,  or  gives  sympa 
thetic  heed  to  the  efforts  of  a  wren  to  teach  her 
babes  to  fly. 

I  can  look  out  over  the  cornfields  and  see  the 
negroes  working,  and  watch  the  corn  grow  in  the 
sunshine, — growing  in  fact  or  seeming,  as  fast  as 
the  darkeys  work, — though  that  is  not  excessive 
rate  of  speed.  This  back  porch  is  used  as  a  delight 
some  place  in  which  to  eat  watermelons,  when 
they  are  ripe  in  Virginia.  Mose  also  brings  me 
early  plums,  a  lovely  red,  and  strawberries  delec 
table  enough  for  disembodied  spirits  to  enjoy,  and 
raspberries,  red  and  black.  The  blackberries,  too, 
are  ripening,  and  the  huckleberries,  as  the  lips 
of  small  boys  unconsciously  tell  me.  Mose  brings 
me  baskets  of  big  strawberries,  and  smiles  as  he 


12  jfrom  a  £>outfjern 


says:  "Mistis,  dey's  good  enough  to  make  you 
swallow  your  tongue!"  Everything  tastes  better 
on  the  porch  than  inside  the  house,  for  there  is 
some  magic  about  the  cordial  air,  the  quickening 
sun,  that  makes  eating  a  mild  rapture. 

If  I  tire  of  the  back  porch,  I  may  go  to  the 
kitchen  porch,  looking  out  over  the  tennis  court, 
where  the  quavering  foxhound  puppies  play, 
uttering  blithe  doggerel.  The  pine  trees  come  up 
lovingly  to  the  house,  and  I  can  see  in  the  back 
the  little  stream  that  burbles  to  itself  in  sun- 
flecked  shadows.  Far  back  can  be  heard  the 
pigpen,  from  which  come  grunts  of  lazy  content, 
to  match  my  own  sensations,  and  occasional 
distressed  squeals  that  cut  the  air  when  some 
intrusive  pig  tramples  on  his  brother's  toes.  Some 
times  I  sit  here  and  churn,  having  in  a  large- 
hearted  impulse  offered  to  help  the  dark  lady  with 
her  work.  Churning  is  a  dreamful  occupation, 
for  one  does  not  need  to  work  fast.  I  can  pretend 
to  read  as  I  splash-splash-splash,  but  it  is  only  a 
pretense,  for  the  gurgles  in  the  churn,  the  foaming 
bubbles  that  come  out  at  the  top,  the  runlets  that 
spill  over  the  edge  and  trickle  down  upon  the 
newspaper  spread  preparedly  upon  the  floor,  are 
more  entrancing  than  black  letters  on  white 


iforcfjer  13 


paper.  It  is  an  exciting  moment  when  the  first 
little  speckles  of  butter  appear  on  the  top,  and  I 
know  that  the  butter  is  coming.  I  drop  a  lump 
of  ice  inside  the  churn  to  make  the  butter  firmer 
and  to  help  it  "gather."  When  the  work  is  over 
and  the  butter  taken  up,  I  sit  on  the  kitchen  porch 
and  drink  deeply  of  the  fresh  buttermilk.  There's 
no  nectar  like  it ! 

There  is  also  the  side  porch,  whence  one  has  the 
best  view  of  the  road,  and  can  vicariously  go  on  all 
sorts  of  journeys  without  tiring,  stroll  through 
the  little  woodsy  paths  with  the  eye,  watch  the 
diffident  boldness  of  the  young  rabbits  in  the 
brush,  count  the  cows  that  saunter  out  to  pasture, 
flash  by  in  motors  or  go  on  barefooted  ease  through 
the  soft  dust.  No  highway  in  the  world  is  more 
entrancing  than  that  road,  because  of  its  naive 
unconsciousness  of  interest,  its  indifference  to 
observing  eye. 

There  is  likewise  the  back  porch  upstairs,  where 
I  sit  in  the  sun  to  dry  my  hair  after  a  shampoo. 
Close  up  beside  the  wall  is  a  rose  vine,  in  which  a 
song-sparrow  has  its  nest.  The  little  birds,  so 
slight,  so  small,  so  frail,  chirp  and  twitter  un 
afraid,  though  I  sit  close  enough  to  touch  them 
with  my  outstretched  hand. 


14  Jfrom  a  ^>outfiern 


With  my  hair  streaming  behind  me  in  the  sun, 
the  light  bringing  out  unguessed  gold  in  it,  the 
wind  playing  through  it,  I  feel  more  alive,  more 
elementally  natural,  than  when  these  locks  are 
pinned  upon  my  head  in  conventional  array. 
One's  hair  has  distinct  personality  of  its  own,  and 
tyrannizes  over  one  according  as  it  is  repressed  or 
liberated.  Who  could  think  of  Bacchantes  with 
marcelled  waves,  or  nuns  with  streaming  locks? 
Could  a  woman  fresh  from  the  hands  of  a  fashion 
able  hairdresser  be  absolutely  unaffected  and 
natural?  Could  any  woman  face  a  situation  with 
poise  and  dignity  if  she  knew  her  hair  was  raveling 
at  the  back  of  her  neck  and  stringing  down  over 
her  brow  and  ears  in  slovenly  style?  Invisible 
hairpins  have  lent  a  visible  dignity  in  many  a 
feminine  crisis.  As  Samson  was  said  to  lose  his 
strength  when  his  hair  was  cut,  so  surely  woman 
loses  her  femininity  when  her  braids  are  shorn, 
—  and  one  gathers  vital  force  when  one  sits  in  the 
sun  with  loosened  hair,  letting  the  wind  play  at 
will  through  the  free  locks. 

The  morning  porches  are  chiefly  for  solitude,  the 
afternoon  ones  for  society,  though  all  sorts  of 
persons  drop  in  on  us  when  we  are  on  the  porch. 
Formality  is  done  away  with,  for  who  could  be 


$orcl)er  15 


conventional  on  a  wide  porch  in  the  sweet  air  of 
summer?  Acquaintances  passing  along  the  road 
see  others  sitting  on  the  veranda  and  come  in  to 
find  out  who  they  are.  Children  wander  about, 
romping  over  the  steps  and  tumbling  on  the 
grass,  their  little  bodies  upturned  like  gay-colored, 
animated  mushrooms,  vocal  with  delight.  Young 
girls  flutter  about  like  flower  petals  in  their  bright 
dresses,  and  delicate  old  ladies,  still  in  black  for 
husbands  or  lovers  who  fell  in  the  Civil  War,  smile 
indulgently  as  they  listen  to  their  gay  chatter. 
A  soft-moving  colored  woman,  with  a  bright  ban 
dana  on  her  head,  comes  out,  bringing  lemonade 
in  tall  glasses  that  tinkle  gently  and  tempt  us 
with  their  green-minted  coolness. 

But  perhaps  the  porch  is  nicer  still  in  the 
evening,  for  then  no  one  is  working  or  thinking  of 
work.  We  sit  and  rock  softly,  and  talk  flows  on 
like  a  pleasant  river.  There  is  no  light  on  the 
veranda,  but  the  golden  beams  from  the  hall  and 
the  rooms  come  through  the  open  door  and  win 
dows,  attracting  the  wavering  moths  to  the  paths 
of  light.  The  moon  is  rising  from  among  the  pine 
trees  beyond  the  lake,  showing  silver  lines  of 
radiance  on  the  still  water,  and  touching  with  un 
earthly  beauty  the  spires  of  distant  buildings. 


16  Jfrom  a  ^>outJ)ern 


Fireflies  are  everywhere,  flitting  and  palpitant, 
while  the  glow  from  cigars  tries  to  mimic  them  but 
cannot.  Young  girls  are  like  spirits  in  their  white 
dresses,  and  young  men  sitting  on  the  steps  play 
stringed  instruments  with  twangly  touch,  and  sing 
songs  of  love  and  longing  in  happy  voices. 

But  sometimes  I  think  the  sleeping  porch  is  the 
best  of  all.  To  lie  in  the  open,  yet  knowing  myself 
sheltered,  to  draw  deep  breaths  of  the  tonic  air, 
to  hear  the  melodic  murmur  of  the  leaves  so  close 
to  me,  —  for  it  is  almost  as  if  I  were  in  the  trees 
themselves,  since  their  branches  brush  against  the 
screen  beside  my  pillow,  —  is  a  different  thing 
from  sleeping  stupidly  inside  a  room.  I  can  lie 
awake  in  a  delicious  drowsiness,  and  watch  the 
white  stillness  of  the  moonlight,  with  the  lake  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill  shining  silverly,  and  with  my 
mocking  bird  singing  poignantly  somewhere  in 
the  distance.  A  little  rowboat  is  on  the  lake, 
with  two  persons  in  it,  slipping  by  soundless  and 
quiet  as  if  it  were  a  wraith,  as  —  who  knows?  — 
perhaps  it  is.  I  lie  awake  a  long  time,  for  the 
night  is  too  rare  to  be  wasted  in  mere  slumber,  and 
listen  to  the  country  noises,  the  baying  of  the 
hounds,  the  chirping  of  crickets,  the  far-off, 
eerie  call  of  a  screech  owl,  the  booming  of  the  bull- 


$orcfjer  17 


frogs  in  the  lake.  There  is  an  exquisite  transition 
state  between  consciousness  and  slumber  that  I 
am  never  aware  of  in  inside  sleeping.  I  sleep  at 
once  more  deeply  and  more  consciously  in  the 
open  than  within  stuffy  houses.  I  am  at  once 
fast  asleep,  in  health-giving  slumber,  and  enjoying 
the  sensations  I  feel.  I  sleep,  realizing  that  I  am 
asleep,  and  reveling  in  the  experience.  Surely  the 
best  cure  for  insomnia  would  be  a  sleeping-porch 
in  the  country ! 

The  front  porch  where  I  spend  most  of  my  time 
is  large  enough  for  an  enormous  family  to  enjoy 
either  solitude  or  society  there  as  they  might  wish. 
It  is,  let  us  say,  fifty  feet  long  and  fifteen  wide.  I 
have  never  had  the  inquisitive  energy  to  measure 
it,  but  that  is  about  what  it  looks  to  be.  It 
stretches  the  width  of  a  colonial  house,  with  great 
white  columns  across  the  front.  It  faces  to  the 
south,  looking  out  across  flower-beds  and  a  lawny 
hill  to  a  lake  at  the  foot  of  the  slope,  a  little  lake 
still  when  the  wind  is  quiet,  and  dimpling  when 
there  is  any  breeze.  All  about  are  skyscrapers, 
tall  pine  trees  that  stand  erect  and  front  the 
heavens  with  august  simplicity.  A  low  stone 
coping  that  keeps  the  flower-beds  at  the  crest  of 


i8  jfrom  a 


the  hill  from  being  washed  away,  now  is  covered 
by  a  pink  radiance  of  Dorothy  Perkins  roses. 
June  and  Dorothy  Perkins  roses  ! 

I  look  out  on  a  curving  nook  with  pine  trees  on 
each  side  of  it,  and  a  stone  wall  behind,  with  a 
convent  seat  where  lovers  may  sit  and  dream. 
A  chipmunk,  who  has  his  chip-monastery  in  a 
hole  underneath  it,  thinks  it  was  put  there  for 
him.  He  resents  anyone  else's  presence  near  it, 
and  utters  little  barking  squeaks  of  disapproval, 
quite  as  if  lovers  had  no  place  in  his  universe  at 
all.  He  whisks  his  ornate  little  tail  over  the 
Dorothy  Perkins  roses  in  odd  disfavor.  Chip 
munks  are  such  egoists  ! 

Lucia  takes  her  admirers  to  the  convent  seat 
with  cool  impartiality,  seeming  to  care  no  more  — 
and  no  less  —  for  the  brisk  young  black-haired, 
black-eyed  doctor  with  his  crisp  efficiency  of 
manner,  than  for  the  grave,  reserved  young  scholar 
with  his  blue  eyes  looking  out  with  restraint 
through  his  nose-glasses,  and  with  the  student 
stoop  common  among  bookish  men  who  have  no 
women  folk  to  admonish  them  daily  to  hold  their 
shoulders  up.  The  Doctor  has  lived  here  always,  so 
is  no  novelty  to  us,  but  the  Professor  is  from  Boston, 
come  here  to  do  research  work  among  old  papers. 


Jlortfjer  19 


Under  the  roof  of  my  porch  are  little  bird-houses 
where  the  wrens  may  live  and  rear  their  families 
in  peace.  Wrens  have  so  many  enemies  in  this 
world  of  small  boys,  squirrels,  cats,  and  other 
prowlers,  that  it  takes  human  intervention  to 
reduce  the  mortality  among  wrenlets  and  let  the 
songs  be  perpetuated.  There  are  tiny  eggs  in  the 
house  above  me,  this  house  with  a  door  no  bigger 
than  a  two-bit  piece.  No  other  birds,  such  as  the 
intrusive  English  sparrow,  can  come  in  and  drive 
the  wrens  away,  so  the  mother  bird  sits  dreaming 
on  her  eggs  and  sings  in  happy  safety.  Her 
mate  brings  her  food,  the  two  twittering  joyously 
to  each  other  about  the  future,  and  the  June  world 
they  look  out  upon.  Like  me,  they  find  it  good. 

A  driveway  curves  round  the  house,  then 
rambles  off  down  the  hill  to  the  road  a  good 
distance  away.  It  is  quiet  in  the  mornings,  when 
usually  only  the  tradesmen's  carts  come  up,  but 
in  the  afternoon  autos  snort  up  the  slope,  dis 
turbing  the  wrens,  and  causing  the  squirrels  to 
flirt  their  tails  in  annoyance.  It  is  really  a  much 
nicer  driveway  in  the  morning ! 

It  is  morning.  I  do  not  know  the  hour,  nor  do 
I  care.  Here  on  this  June  porch  in  Virginia, 


20  jfrom  a  Hxwtjjern 


clocks  have  no  thralldom  over  me,  though  other- 
whiles  I'm  ruled  by  figures  on  a  dial.  Now  I  am 
free  in  a  timeless  world!  I  am  alone,  which  is 
another  joy  not  frequently  experienced  ty  me  or 
by  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  island  on  which 
I  live  when  I'm  not  here.  An  hour  lengthens  itself 
out  so  delectably  when  it  doesn't  have  to  be 
shared  with  anyone!  Isn't  it  queer  how  persons 
who  would  not  think  of  asking  you  to  give  them 
money  or  property,  will  calmly  request  of  you  your 
time,  —  which  no  money  can  replace?  A  day,  an 
hour,  what  is  it  but  a  little  piece  of  your  life? 
—  yet  those  who  would  not  ask  for  pounds  of  your 
flesh  will  cheerfully  demand  your  time. 

The  porch  has  been  set  in  order,  and  I  am  loafing 
in  happy  abandon.  At  my  end  of  the  veranda  is  a 
swinging  couch,  in  which  I  vibrate  at  peace  with 
the  world,  as  a  part  of  the  wheeling  planets,  with 
a  motion  as  inspired  as  theirs.  I  am  a  planet,— 
why  not,  if  I  choose?  —  with  a  free  yet  ordered 
cosmic  motion,  swaying  as  I  list.  Out  here  in  the 
open  world  I  am  all  things  of  nature.  I  am  that 
humming-bird,  shaking  the  world  with  my  whir 
ring  wings;  I  am  that  puppy  leaping  with  winy 
life;  I  am  that  darkey  in  the  battered  hat  riding 
down  the  road;  I  am  that  pig  grunting  in  s 


$orcfjer  21 


peace  in  the  pen  by  the  stable,  more  than  half  in 
love  with  easeful  life;  I  am  that  slanting  sun 
beam  down  which  the  gold  motes  dance.  Out 
here  life  is  so  abounding,  so  spontaneous,  that 
one  body  cannot  hold  all  of  its  vitality.  I  am 
alive  as  never  before,  yet  steeped  in  a  heavenly 
laziness. 

Within  reach  of  my  indolent  hand  is  a  table 
littered  with  books  and  magazines,  which  I  do 
not  touch.  This  morning  is  too  perfect  to  be 
wasted  in  reading.  One  can  read  elsewhere  and 
else  when.  Reading  is  for  the  aged  and  the  in 
firm,  and  for  city  folk,  who  die  soon  after  they 
are  born.  But  I  am  a  porcher  now,  and  I  have 
naught  to  do  with  books  this  morning!  Propped 
up  by  pillows  and  swaying  slowly  in  the  wind,  I 
gaze  about  me.  The  empty  chairs  look  com 
radely,  the  little  green  rockers  with  their  stiff 
backs  covered  by  white  nightshirts,  the  steamer 
chair,  the  French  lounging  couch,  the  big  capaci 
ous  rockers  and  straight  chairs,  the  footstools,  and 
all  manner  of  temptations  to  laziness.  Who  could 
be  anything  but  self-indulgent  on  a  Southern 
porch?  This  is  my  morning  haunt,  for  the  sun 
cannot  reach  me  here,  and  the  telephone  is  too 
far  away  to  torment  me.  If  I  hear  it  at  all,  it  is 


22  Jfrom  a  &<mtfjern 


as  some  far-off  music  for  which  I  feel  no  responsi 
bility  of  answer. 

The  other  end  of  the  porch  is  the  gathering 
place  in  the  afternoon,  with  furniture  a  shade 
more  formal,  less  indolent  in  appeal.  There  the 
tea-table  is  set  and  the  tea-wagon  comes  trundling 
out  when  callers  arrive  after  we  have  had  our 
nap  and  waked  to  a  new  world.  The  afternoon 
end  of  the  porch  must  always  be  orderly,  which  is 
why  I  like  it  less  at  times.  I  may  not  sprawl 
about  in  a  swinging  couch  or  lounge  in  a  steamer 
chair,  but  must  sit  up  in  afternoon  clothes  and 
entertain  guests.  The  magazines  must  be  cleared 
away,  lest  I  be  tempted  to  read  while  I  have 
company.  I  am  often  struck  with  a  perverse 
impulse  to  read  when  callers  are  here,  though  I 
may  have  loafed  away  a  whole  illiterate  morning. 
But  that,  of  course,  depends  upon  the  nature  of 
the  callers. 

There  is  a  big  hanging  vase  of  Chinese  blue, 
heavenly  blue,  upon  the  wall  beside  the  door, 
with  Wandering  Jew  growing  in  it,  whose  trailing 
vines  stray  over  the  white  wall.  There  are 
flower-boxes  of  Spanish  tiling  to  match  the  vase 
and  the  sky,  as  well  as  the  rose  of  the  flowers  that 
grow  in  the  boxes  and  the  blue  of  the  rugs. 


23 


The  dogs  of  the  household  are  not  allowed  to 
come  upon  this  porch  in  the  afternoon,  for  they 
are  clumsy,  muddy  creatures  whose  affectionate 
impulses  menace  balancing  cups  and  dainty  frocks. 
They  come  to  the  steps  and  look  longingly  at  the 
tea-wagon  with  its  sandwiches  and  little  cakes, — 
the  foxhounds  with  their  deep  humility  of  aspect 
and  their  obtrusive  obstinacy  of  manner,  the  bull 
dog  with  his  face  like  a  gargoyle,  the  fox-terrier 
with  his  thumping  tail  and  eager  eyes,  the  Scotch 
collie  with  her  lovely  coat  and  honest,  importunate 
air  of  devotion.  They  sit  or  move  mournfully 
about  in  their  banishment,  contriving  to  make  our 
guests  think  we  are  hard-hearted  or  considerate, 
according  as  they  like  or  dislike  dogs.  Still,  one 
may  care  for  dogs  and  yet  have  a  concern  for  one's 
raiment,  in  these  days  of  laundry  complications, 
for  an  affectionate  paw  laid  on  one's  knee  sends  a 
white  skirt  to  the  wash  at  once,  and  a  nuzzling 
nose  leaves  streaks  that  call  for  a  cleaner's  best 
efforts.  Dogs  are  dear,  yes,  but  it  is  better  to  fondle 
them  only  in  one's  old  clothes  in  the  morning. 

I  have  wished  that  poor  city  dogs,  pathetic 
creatures  ignominiously  muzzled,  never  at  liberty, 
looking  out  in  mute  protest  from  high-barred 
windows,  slinking  along  dragged  by  chains,  on 


24  Jfrom  a  Southern  $orcf) 

adamant  pavements,  leaning  blase  heads  from 
passing  autos,  could  be  turned  loose  on  country 
porches — in  the  morning,  of  course.  It  would 
not  do,  naturally,  to  set  them  all  free  on  contigu 
ous  verandas,  but  a  few  in  a  place  could  get  along 
amicably  and  be  much  happier  than  they  are 
now. 

It  is  only  on  some  magic  porch  or  other  that 
the  lost  art  of  loafing  can  be  recaptured.  What  if 
that  were  permanently  lost  to  the  world?  How 
terrible  to  contemplate  ?  On  a  porch  one  relapses 
into  gentility, — one  realizes  that  it  is  ill-bred  to  be 
so  busy  that  one  forgets  or  neglects  the  sweet 
courtesies  of  life,  that  it  is  vulgar  to  be  always 
in  a  hurry.  It  is  vulgar  because  it  is  self -centered. 
The  Arabs,  wise  souls ! — have  an  adage  that  leisure 
is  God-given  but  haste  is  of  the  Evil  One.  The 
Arabs,  doubtless,  have  little  earthen  porches  in 
front  of  their  tents  in  the  desert,  whence  comes 
their  sane  philosophy. 

It  is  only  on  porches  that  one  learns  the  sweet 
grace  of  procrastination,  practicing  to  the  limit  the 
high  art  of  putting  off  till  to-morrow,  some  beauti 
ful,  perfect  manana,  any  to-morrow,  the  task  too 
tedious  to  be  done  to-day.  There  be  narrow- 
minded,  house-souled  folk  who  count  such  pro- 


$orcf)er  25 


crastination  a  weakness,  even  vice,  but  that  is 
because  of  the  limitation  of  their  outlook.  Pro 
crastination  is,  in  truth,  a  virtue,  admirable, 
acquirable  by  anyone  who  wills.  How  much 
more  impressive  to  be  than  merely  nervously  to 
do!  Of  course,  there  is  the  cheap,  spurious  pro- 
crastinator,  he  who  is  new  to  the  thought,  who 
hasn't  yet  realized  that  postponement  is  a  time- 
saver,  not  the  thief  it  has  been  libelously  called. 
He,  masquerading  time-server,  doesn't  really 
procrastinate,  or  at  least,  he  does  so  with  his 
overt,  vicious  energy  that  is  the  enemy  to  easeful 
art.  He  performs  any  number  of  distasteful  tasks 
to  reconcile  his  conscience  to  the  putting  off  of  one 
thing  he  thinks  he  should  do.  He  will  do  with 
ludicrous  alacrity  anything  to  avoid  the  one 
thing  he  dislikes.  But  he  is  a  mere  pretender, 
since  he  sets  in  motion  vibrations  of  bourgeois 
energy  inimical  to  gracious  ease. 

The  real  procrastinator,  the  one  with  ancestry 
of  loafing  behind  him,  puts  sour-visaged  duty  in 
her  place,  with  a  smile  so  charming  that  she  is 
content  to  be  ignored.  He  has  more  important 
projects  on  hand  than  mere  physical  or  mental 
chores.  He  must  ponder  on  the  outer  loveliness  of 
nature,  must  hear  the  silences  of  sound,  must  watch 


26  Jfrom  a  &outf)ern 


the  stillnesses  of  motion,  must  psycholo-analyze 
the  insects.  How  can  he  do  these  essential  things 
if  he  has  to  be  pottering  about  unnecessary  triviali 
ties?  Life  is  so  cluttered  up  with  useless  tasks! 
Souls,  need  spring  house-cleanings  to  rid  them 
selves  of  objectionable  encumbering  prejudices 
toward  exertion. 

Promptness  is  the  thief  of  time.  Most  duties 
have  no  real  cause  to  be  performed,  anyhow,  and 
he  who  rushes  up  to  do  them  frenziedly,  finds  out 
later  that  he  has  fashed  himself  for  nothing. 
Procrastination,  on  the  other  hand,  promotes  all 
the  gentilities  of  life  that  are  rudely  jostled  out 
of  the  way  by  the  energetic,  prompt  person.  The 
cocksure  person  who  is  always  ahead  of  time  is 
unendurable  to  live  with.  It  is  on  a  porch  that 
one  learns  the  true  value  of  time.  I  found  a 
charming  sentence  lately  in  a  theme  written  by  a 
student  who  is  a  foreigner.  He  said:  "I  think 
it  is  abhorrible  to  spend  your  money  squander- 
ously  in  riotious  living."  I  think  it  dreadful  to 
spend  time  squanderously  in  mere  work,  when 
magic  hours  were  meant  for  loafing  on  a  porch. 

On  a  porch  the  friction  of  motion  and  of  emo 
tion  are  cooled,  and  a  stilling  hand  is  laid  on  the 
fevered  pulse  of  life.  Here  one  has  time  to  think. 


27 


It  is  difficult  to  think  inside  suspicious  walls, 
deafened  by  clamorous  noises,  jarred  by  unceasing 
vibrations.  Thinking  is  an  operation  that  requires 
the  open  air,  the  caressing  wind,  the  high  blue 
heavens  to  aid,  the  friendly  trees.  One  cannot 
meditate  amidst  the  monstrous  noises  of  the  city, 
but  here  on  a  country  porch,  the  sounds  one  hears 
are  stillnesses,  benedictions.  Caught  up  in  tyran 
nic  buildings  halfway  between  earth  and  sky  yet 
near  to  neither,  fretted  by  unnatural  sounds  and 
motions,  poor  city  beings  never  can  muse, — they 
can  only  be  amused.  The  cure  for  nervous  pros 
tration  and  moral  perversion  is  a  secluded  porch 
in  the  country. 

The  conversation  that  human  beings  carry  on 
would  be  sincerer,  gentler,  kindlier,  if  it  were 
uttered  on  open  porches  with  the  peace  of  pine 
trees  and  whispering  waters  and  candid  sky  about. 
One  would  not  so  readily  yield  to  sarcastic  im 
pulses  in  the  presence  of  benignant  trees,  nor 
utter  light  flatteries,  nor  criticize  in  the  presence 
of  flowers,  nor  quarrel  with  song  sparrows  to  hear, 
I  fancy.  It  is  possible  for  us  to  be  our  best  selves, 
our  real  selves,  only  in  the  open.  I  think  that  we 
can  be  wholly  natural  only  in  the  immediate 
presence  of  nature. 


28  jfrom  a  gxmtfjern 


The  porch  is  an  ideal  place,  for  it  is  essentially  a 
part  of  the  home,  yet  a  part  of  the  outdoors  as 
well.  One's  personality  expands  with  the  far 
outlook.  The  hermit  who  lives  in  the  woods 
is  not  so  utterly  cut  off  from  his  fellows  as  is  the 
cliff-dweller  in  the  city,  who  lives  too  near  to 
man  to  know  him  or  to  be  known.  The  ideal 
place  for  living  is  the  porch,  where  one  may  see 
his  fellow-mortals  in  reason,  yet  be  much  alone. 
To  be  in  the  home,  yet  in  the  open,  to  be  close 
to  all  the  pulsing  life  of  man  and  of  nature,  and 
yet  to  be  alone  at  will,  —  that  is  the  blessedness 
of  the  porch-life. 

In  the  city  one  is  so  far  away  from  nature  that 
one  knows  when  it  is  spring  only  by  the  ther 
mometer  and  the  florists'  windows.  The  sun  is 
a  remote  stranger,  briefly  glimpsed  in  narrow 
expanse  of  sky  at  the  top  of  tall  buildings,  and 
the  moon  is  practically  unknown,  for  how  should 
she  shine  in  competition  with  garish,  winking 
signs?  The  stars  are  obscured  by  smoke,  and 
are  not  the  friends  we  know  by  name  in  the 
country.  The  wind  is  at  atmospheric  condi 
tion,  not  a  comrade,  as  on  country  piazzas. 
Here,  now,  as  I  sit  dreaming,  the  breeze  has 
personality. 


29 


0  little  wistful  wind 

That  steals  so  stilly  by, 
So  hesitantly  kind, 

So  delicately  shy! — 

You  lightly  lift  my  hair, 
So  softly  touch  my  cheek, 

Almost  as  if  you  were 
Endeavoring  to  speak. 

Some  secret  word,  or  show 

The  ghost  of  a  caress, — 
But  would  I  answer, — lo! 

You're  fled  to  nothingness ! 

I  am  a  Virginian,  not  by  nativation,  but  by 
visitation,  a  summer  Virginian,  and  this  series  of 
porches  where  I  spend  my  joyous  vacations  are 
not  really  mine,  you  know.  They  are  porches-in- 
law,  but  I'm  not  disturbed  over  the  fact,  since  I 
always  did  think  Dante  was  illogical  in  being 
upset  over  having  to  go  up  and  down  other  peo 
ple's  stairs  all  his  life.  Loafing  on  other  people's 
porches  is  a  sight  easier  than  keeping  one's  own 
furnished  and  in  order.  Other  folks'  gardens  have 
somewhat  the  same  satisfaction  as  others'  children, 
cars,  and  so  forth.  There's  no  responsibility  about 
clothing,  gasoline,  discipline,  or  digging,  but  one 
can  just  sit  back  and  enjoy  them. 


30  Jfrom  a  ^outfjern 


But  I  find  this  difference  between  porches-in- 
law  and  gardens-in-law.  Owners  of  gardens  seem 
more  foolishly  fond  of  them  than  of  their  porches, 
curiously  enough.  Householders  will  permit  an 
outsider  to  criticize  their  porches,  where  amateur 
gardeners  refuse  suggestion  of  improvement.  It 
seems  that  gardens  are  more  like  children  than 
porches  are.  Owners  wish  no  slightest  hint  of 
even  constructive  criticism,  no  comment  that 
that  rose  would  perhaps  look  better  yonder,  or 
that  the  pedestal  to  the  gazing-globe  is  a  shade  too 
ornate,  or  anything  of  the  kind.  Women  are 
as  sensitive  about  their  gardens  as  about  their 
children,  willing  to  berate  them  themselves  on 
occasion,  but  suffering  no  adverse  remark  from 
any  howsoever  close  relation.  I  sometimes  think 
that  mothers  are  the  foolishest  creatures  in  the 
world,  for  they  are  so  avid  of  praise  for  then- 
offspring,  yet  so  hermetically  sealed  against  sug 
gestion  that  their  progeny  are  not  perfect.  Yet 
any  given  mother  will  freely  criticize  other  chil 
dren,  will  comment  on  them  at  will,  and  even 
grant  an  unmarried  woman  the  right  to  an  opinion 
concerning  them,  while  thinking  it  a  mark  of 
criminal  insanity  for  anyone  to  hint  at  defect  in 
her  children. 


31 

' 


A  mother  seems  to  think  that  the  mere  physical 
fact  of  parturition  endows  her  with  supernatural 
wisdom,  while  on  the  contrary,  it  takes  from  her 
the  judgment  and  common  sense  she  may  origin 
ally  have  had  with  reference  to  children.  I 
believe  the  world  would  be  vastly  better  off  if 
children  were  separated  from  their  mothers  at 
birth  and  given  to  other  women  to  be  cared  for. 
But  since  society  is  not  yet  sufficiently  advanced 
to  permit  of  such  a  scheme,  the  only  other  plan  of 
wisdom  for  children  is  to  bring  them  all  up  on  ' 
verandas. 

In  the  city  where  I  live,  I  have  a  little  square 
of  roof  that  is  my  own,  and  which  I  fondly  call  my 
porch,  gloating  over  less  favored  mortals  who 
must  huddle  on  stoops  or  hang  over  fire-escapes 
to  get  a  breath  of  air.  But  it  does  not  serve  the 
purposes  of  a  real  porch, — it  is  only  a  pathetic 
substitute.  When  I  retire  there  hopefully  to 
think,  my  neighbors'  maids  shake  angry  dust- 
cloths  over  me,  my  neighbors'  husbands  raucously 
discuss  the  monthly  bills,  my  neighbors'  victrolas 
try  to  outsound  the  hurdy-gurdy  in  the  street 
beyond,  while  my  neighbors'  babies  cry  inces 
santly.  Babies  in  the  city  have  so  much  more  to 
cry  over  than  those  in  the  country!  There  are 


32  jfrom  a  &>outfjern  $orcf) 

birds  about  my  porch,  yes, — a  swearing  parrot  in 
a  flat  across  the  alley,  a  caged  canary  on  the 
floor  below,  that  sings  vociferously, — the  same 
that  wakes  me  every  morning  at  six  o'clock — and 
an  occasional  rusty  English  sparrow  that  perches 
on  my  iron  railing  and  chirps  complaints  to  the 
clothes-line.  No,  a  roof  is  not  a  porch!  In  the 
city,  one  never  escapes  oneself  and  never  finds 
oneself,  never  gets  away  from  other  people  and 
never  gets  close  to  them.  One's  egos  are  like 
horrible  Siamese  twins,  not  separable,  not  free, 
as  in  the  open. 

I  think  that  the  many  mansions  spoken  of  as 
making  heaven  home-like,  will  be  furnished  with 
numerous  and  wide  porches.  I  am  trying  to  be 
very  good  so  that  I  may  sometime  go  there,  but 
if  I  find  paradise  porchless,  I  shall  request  the 
angels  to  let  me  come  back  to  certain  porches 
that  I  know  on  earth 


II 

ENTOMOLOGY  ON  A  COUNTRY  PORCH 

WHILE  I  lazily  lie  in  my  swinging  couch  on  my 
country  porch  and  watch  the  insects  in  their 
varied  life  about  me,  I  mourn  over  the  wasted 
years  in  which  I  did  not  study  entomology.  I 
should  get  so  much  more  out  of  all  this,  if  I  were 
less  ignorant  concerning  the  biology  and  psycho 
logy  of  bugs, — but  even  so  I  enjoy  watching  them 
in  my  illiterate  way.  Possibly  after  all,  the 
amateur  scientist  is  the  only  one  who  truly  takes 
pleasure  in  studying  nature,  for  the  professional 
must  regard  it  as  work,  and  must  classify  and 
record  his  observations  for  the  suspicious  eyes  of 
brother  scientists,  while  the  amateur,  as  the 
name  implies,  is  one  who  loves  it  and  looks  upon 
it  as  a  joy  and  not  a  task. 

I  am  regretful  that  in  my  growing  up  years  bugs 

were  not  regarded  seriously  as  now.     I  have  to  get 

my  mind  adjusted  to  the  notion  of  taking  them  as 

important  members  of  society,  since  in  my  green 

3  33 


34  Jfrom  a  g>o«tf)ern  $orcfj 

days  they  were  brushed  aside  or  stepped  on 
without  qualm.  I  didn't  know  then  that  scholars 
give  their  whole  lives  to  studying  worms,  or  work 
up  a  passionate  fervor  over  spiders,  or  rhapsodize 
over  bees.  Childhood  felt  a  sympathetic  dis 
regard  for  these  creatures,  which  adultage  scorned. 
I  always  agreed  with  the  poet  who  said : 

"I  would  not  number  in  my  list  of  friends, 
Though  blessed  with  polished  learning  and  fine  sense 
Yet  lacking  sensibility,  the  man 
Who'd  needlessly  set  foot  upon  a  worm." 

I  thought  that  bugs  had  as  much  right  to  a  place 
in  the  shade  as  I  did,  and  that  we  humans  should 
have  a  care  for  their  happiness,  but  I  knew  nothing 
of  their  real  activities,  their  tyranny  over  our 
destiny.  Hasn't  modern  civilized  life  come  to 
be  little  else  than  a  fight  for  life  against  bugs? 
Even  the  thought  of  them  is  terrifying,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  darkey  I  heard  of  lately  who  went 
crazy  because  he  fancied  he  had  worms  in  his 
brain.  That  would  be  an  awful  condition  of 
affairs.  What  if —  ?  but  let  us  dismiss  the  thought ! 
Insects  are  attractive  things  and  very  human, 
or  perhaps  we  men  and  women  are  like  bugs.  I 
have  known  dragon  flies,  swift-motioned,  gleam- 


Cntamologp  on  a  Country  $orcfj  35 

ing;  and  hornets,  unbeautiful  but  effective;  some 
people  are  like  honeybees,  engaged  in  sweet  un 
selfish  labors,  while  others  are  crickets  that  only 
chirp;  some  are  butterflies,  flashing  in  the  pure 
light,  while  others  are  noisome,  creeping  things 
that  lurk  in  dank  shadows.  Some  persons  are 
fireflies,  lighting  up  dark  places  for  others,  while 
there  are  those  who  are  house  flies,  inquisitive, 
annoying,  noxious.  There  are  some  who  remind 
me  of  the  darkey  folk-rhyme  which  says : 

"De  June-bug  hab  de  golden  wing, 

De  lightnin'  bug  de  flame; 
De  bed-bug  got  no  wing  at  all, 
But  he  git  dar  jes'  de  same! " 

Yet  there  isn't  anybody  who  isn't  interesting,  and 
so  there  is  no  bug  that  doesn't  repay  you  for 
studying  it.  I  wonder  what  insect  I  am  like? — 
my  family  would  doubtless  say  a  mosquito. 

As  I  lie  here  quietly,  the  insects  think  I  am  a 
harmless  piece  of  porch  furniture  and  go  about 
their  activities  without  fear.  They  do  not  loaf  as 
I  do.  While  I  daily  kill  portions  of  eternity  by 
studying  them,  they  waste  no  moments  in  watching 
me.  That  dirt-dauber,  with  his  black  and  yellow 
convict  stripes,  is  building  a  house  for  himself 


36  Jfrom  a  ^outfjern 


at  the  top  of  the  front  door.  He  should  know  that 
it  will  not  be  permitted  to  remain,  for  the  maid 
has  knocked  it  down  already  various  times,  but  he 
seems  to  have  an  illogical  mind.  All  insects  are 
like  that,  where  human  intervention  comes  in. 
His  house  is  a  cunningly  contrived  adobe  hut, 
with  little  passages  inside,  where  he  and  his  family 
might  live  in  peace  but  for  the  catapulting  broom 
which  has  a  hundred  eyes.  He  thought  he  had 
chosen  a  safe  as  well  as  sightly  place,  but  when  the 
broom  attacks,  his  house  falls  to  the  ground,  its 
little  secret  ways  laid  bare,  a  crumbled  ruin.  The 
dirt-dauber  looks  like  the  wasp  and  the  hornet, 
but  he  is  a  harmless  soul  that  cannot  sting,  so 
he  has  no  protection  against  artilleried  broom- 
straws.  Now  if  insects  were  more  intelligent, 
they'd  have  a  league  whereby  the  wasp  and  the 
hornet  would  rush  to  defend  the  dirt-dauber,  and 
save  him  from  despair. 

There  is  a  granddaddy  longlegs  stalking  about 
on  the  floor;  with  his  stilt-like  dignity.  However 
can  he  contrive  to  walk  on  such  basting-threads? 
I  never  saw  a  living  thing  with  such  invisible 
means  of  support,  —  and  there's  really  nothing  to 
him  but  a  couple  of  eyes,  when  you  look  closely 
at  him. 


€ntomologp  on  a  Country  J)ordj  37 

Spiders  are  not  allowed  on  this  well-broomed 
porch,  but  they  can  construct  their  webs  in  the 
vines  a  little  out  of  sight  and  stretch  their  gossa 
mer  threads  across  the  flowers.  The  spiders  with 
their  pot-bellied  bodies  and  beady  eyes,  are  not 
beauteous  objects,  but  a  spider-web  in  the  sunshine 
with  dew  upon  it,  is  one  of  the  loveliest  things  in 
the  world.  The  colored  maid,  Tish — her  name 
is  really  Letitia  Elizabeth  Sara  Katherine  Jane 
Roxy  Anna  Cora  Tippet  Morgan,  but  we  call  her 
Tish  for  short — is  careful  to  brush  down  the  webs 
when  she  spies  them,  but  she  will  never  harm  the 
spinner.  I  once  asked  her  why,  and  she  answered, 
11  Hit's  bad  luck. " 

"Naturally,  it's  bad  luck  for  the  spider,"  I 
answered.  But  she  responded  with  dignity: 

"If  you  wish  to  live  an'  thrive, 
Let  all  spiders  run  alive." 

I  note  in  general  a  closer  harmony  between 
insects  and  the  colored  race  than  the  white. 
Negroes  do  not  willingly  destroy  any  living  thing, 
but  courteously  permit  it  to  live,  even  if  it  has 
been  convicted  of  maleficence.  Darkeys  dote  on 
germs,  while  a  too  thoroughly  hygienic,  antiseptic 
world  would  kill  off  the  colored  race  in  a  month. 


38  Jfrom  a  Hboutfjern 


Someone  showed  me  an  extraordinary  spider- 
web  the  other  day.  A  man  in  Munich  raises  a 
certain  breed  of  spiders  that  spin  threads  of 
astonishing  strength,  which  he  weaves  into  cloth 
as  delicate  as  dream,  yet  substantial  enough  to 
allow  pictures  to  be  painted  upon  it.  This  spider- 
cloth  I  saw  had  on  it  the  portrait  of  a  laughing 
mountaineer  in  gala  attire,  with  his  hat  on  one 
side  and  his  pipe  in  his  mouth.  How  his  sweet 
heart  must  have  admired  him!  The  picture 
was  framed  with  glass  both  front  and  back,  so 
that  one  might  see  the  fragility  of  the  texture,  — 
and  there  that  mountaineer  may  laugh  for  a 
century  or  so.  I  wonder  why  the  enterprising 
Bavarian  doesn't  weave  cloth  for  wedding-dresses 
out  of  his  spider  threads. 

There  are  trench  spiders  as  well  as  aviators, 
I  have  observed.  The  other  day  I  descended 
from  my  couch  to  investigate  a  big  hole  in  a 
flower-bed  beside  the  porch.  Pokings  with  a 
sharp  stick  educed  no  information,  so  I  turned  the 
hose  on  the  hole,  and  jumped  briskly  to  one  side 
as  presently  a  tarantula  came  scuttling  up  from 
its  underground  home  through  the  drenching 
water.  I  watched  it  as  it  scrambled  away  in 
retreat,  but  at  a  distance,  fearful  of  possible  tar- 


Cntomoloojp  on  a  Country  $)orcfj  39 

antism.  I  should  think,  however,  that  tarantulas 
would  have  the  effect  of  making  the  observer  run, 
instead  of  dance. 

While  it  is  difficult  to  determine  an  excuse  for 
existence  on  the  part  of  some  insects,  there  are 
others  that  are  obviously  pleasure  bugs.  June- 
bugs,  for  instance,  are  most  attractive  insects. 
It  is  apparently  one  of  the  inalienable  delights 
of  childhood  round  about  here  to  swing  them  by 
strings,  to  watch  them  in  their  colorful  gyrations. 
I  urge  objection  to  the  practice,  since  I'm  sure  the 
oscillation  can't  be  pleasurable  to  the  "Juney- 
bugs, "  but  it's  no  use,  for  these  innocent  beings,  like 
"  lightning-bugs, "  are  too  lovely  for  their  own  good. 

Bees,  now,  have  some  means  of  protecting  them 
selves.  I'd  like  to  see  any  small  boy  swinging  a 
bumble-bee  by  a  string!  Even  the  honeybee  has 
a  dignity  of  defense  that  guarantees  its  safety. 
There  are  several  beehives  here,  located  down 
on  the  hill  toward  the  south,  on  the  slope  so  that 
they  may  be  protected  from  the  north  wind,  and 
near  to  the  lake,  since  bees  love  the  water,  and 
close  to  the  banks  of  goldenrod  and  clover  growing 
by  the  road.  I  lie  in  ease  and  watch  the  bees  at 
work  among  the  flowers, — a  pleasant  enough  job, 
if  a  bee  feels  he  simply  must  be  busy. 


4°  Jfrom  a  &cmtf)ern  JJorcfj 

At  ordinary  times  the  bees  are  inconspicuous, 
for  they  are  a-wing  among  the  flowers,  scattered 
abroad.  Sometimes  they  come  upon  the  porch, 
if  there's  a  jar  of  goldenrod  here,  but  usually  I 
have  to  view  them  at  a  little  distance,  as  they  go 
about  their  perfumed  tasks.  But  sometimes  they 
gather  in  a  thick  cloud  over  the  hive,  and  are  liable 
to  swarm  and  go  away  in  high  dudgeon.  Then 
apparently  the  disagreement  is  adjusted,  the 
threatened  strike  averted,  and  the  fly-out  post 
poned  till  another  day.  They  buzz  about  sullenly 
for  an  hour  or  so,  and  then  go  about  their  chores 
as  individuals.  Various  things  are  likely  to  upset 
a  temperamental  swarm  of  bees,  and  as  they  have 
a  Bolshevik  spirit  of  uprising,  combined  with  a 
Hunnish  effectiveness  of  attack,  one  views  their 
movements  with  concern. 

Honey  has  more  poetry  about  it  than  any  other 
form  of  food,  it  seems  to  me.  The  honey  is  the 
gathered  sunlight,  the  candied  perfume  of  flowers, 
the  scent  of  new-cut  grass,  the  essence  of  spring 
breezes,  the  heart  of  summer  days,  so  that  one 
may  eat  all  the  summer  and  autumn  in  concen 
trated  sweetness  beside  the  winter  fire,  in  a  dream 
ful  transsubstantiation  of  delight.  And  how  kind 
of  the  bee  not  to  preserve  his  sting  in  the  honey ! 


Cntomologp  on  a  Country  $orcfj  41 

Bees  are  a  constant  reproach  to  me  in  my  idle 
ness,  causing  me  a  certain  uneasiness  lest  their 
attitude  toward  drones  become  personal.  Yet  I 
should  love  to  be  friends  with  them — not  too  close 
friends,  however.  I  always  have  thought  the 
superstition  about  telling  the  bees  of  any  death 
in  the  household  a  beautiful  idea,  but  I  shouldn't 
confine  the  friendly  gossip  to  such  doleful  an 
nouncement.  Why  not  give  the  hive  a  daily 
bulletin  of  happenings  that  concern  the  family? 
Of  course,  such  obvious  facts  as  that  the  cow  has 
a  new  calf,  and  that  there's  a  little  colt  out  in  the 
pasture,  with  wobbly  legs  and  a  star  on  its  fore 
head,  they  can  see  for  themselves.  But  there 
are  other  incidents  they  cannot  ascertain,  and  that 
would  doubtless  interest  them.  Why  not  an 
nounce  betrothals  and  weddings  and  new  babies 
as  well  as  deaths?  The  bees  would  collect  honey 
for  us  with  greater  zeal  if  we  chatted  cordially 
with  them  at  times.  I  think  that  all  living  things 
appreciate  comradely  conversation.  It  is  well- 
known,  for  instance,  that  a  cow  will  give  down  her 
milk  more  readily  if  you  speak  her  kindly,  and 
will  withhold  it  if  you  frighten  or  anger  her. 
Chickens  will  flutter  admiringly  about  you  while 
you  talk  to  them,  especially  if  you  feed  them  while 


42  Jfrom  a  ^outfjern 


you  chat.  A  dog  will  thump  his  tail  enthu 
siastically  if  you  tell  him  anything  exciting  about 
rabbits,  for  instance,  or  rats  in  a  hole,  and  a  horse 
will  rub  your  arm  affectionately  if  you  pay  him 
sugared  compliments. 

I  try  to  get  up  conversation  with  the  big  black 
beetles  and  those  of  irridescent  green  that  occasion 
ally  walk  across  the  porch  with  attitudinizing 
mien.  They  stalk  so  haughtily  when  they  think 
they  are  alone,  and  scuttle  away  in  undignified 
retreat  when  I  accost  them,  that  it  is  discouraging. 
They  are  curiously  human  in  their  posing  and  self- 
consciousness  ;  so  much  so,  in  fact,  that  I  identify 
them  with  certain  persons  that  I  know,  in  the  same 
fashion  in  which  I  name  the  chickens,  the  pigs, 
the  squirrels,  and  all  the  beasts  and  birds  about 
the  place  for  human  beings  with  whom  I  am  ac 
quainted.  It  gives  a  new  interest  to  the  men 
and  women.  When  I  see  a  certain  vainglorious 
young  minor  poet,  for  instance,  I  see  through  him  a 
young  rooster  perched  upon  a  stone  wall,  an 
nouncing  his  importance  to  the  unimpressed  world. 
A  speckled  hen  with  a  brood  over  which  she 
sputters  and  clucks  more  than  is  needful,  is  to  me 
a  woman  with  a  large  family  who  used  to  enter 
tain  me  by  the  way  in  which  she  settled  and 


Ctttomologp  on  a  Country  Jlorcf)  43 

unsettled  her  family  in  our  church  long  ago.  She 
made  many  a  sermon  endurable  for  me.  That 
apologetic  hound  is  a  charwoman  that  worked 
in  a  London  boarding-house,  mournfully  mopping 
stairs  and  slinking  in  corners  as  the  landlady 
passed  with  accusing  eye.  And  so  on. 

Occasionally  a  dragon  fly  comes  up  from  the 
lake,  its  wings  flashing  in  the  sun,  then  is  off  on  a 
swift  errand  of  light,  to  be  seen  no  more.  I  wonder 
what  its  part  is  in  the  scheme  of  existence,  and  if 
its  life  is  wholly  satisfactory  to  it.  But  then,  I 
daresay  insects  are  rarely  pessimists,  because  they 
don't  live  long  enough.  It  is  only  the  human 
young  that  are  cynical,  and  they  recover  quickly,  as 
if  their  pangs  were  growing  pains,  or  cosmic  colic. 

The  moths  that  come  up  in  the  evening  when  the 
light  streams  through  the  open  door  upon  the 
porch,  are  like  ghosts.  All  sorts  of  winged  things 
come  to  the  light,  big  moths  with  bright-hued 
wings,  little  silver  frailties  too  delicate  for  the 
touch  of  a  finger,  long-legged  devil's  horses,  and 
angular  creatures  with  the  awkwardness  and  the 
adventurousness  of  adolescence.  Last  night  I 
watched  a  little  silver  wraith,  a  tremulous,  hesitant 
weakling,  flying  through  the  gray  dusk  in  un 
certainty,  that  lighted  for  an  instant  on  my  sleeve, 


44  Jfrom  a  Hxmtfjern 


as  if  to  take  sanctuary  from  its  unsleeping  enemies. 
It  fluttered  and  palpitated  there  for  a  moment, 
then  was  off  to  light  upon  the  screen  in  an  endeavor 
to  reach  the  lamp  within.  The  silent,  intangible 
thing  clung  there  for  a  second  or  two,  then  wan 
dered  off  with  a  baby  breeze  that  beckoned  it. 
I  wished  that  I  might  have  followed  it,  to  protect 
it  from  harm,  but  there  is  so  little  that  one  can  do 
for  ghosts! 

When  I  have  nothing  more  exciting  to  do,  I 
lean  over  the  edge  of  the  porch  and  study  the 
movements  in  an  ant  bed  in  the  walk  near  the 
house.  I  can  sympathize  with  the  man  in  Theodore 
Dreiser's  story,  who  dreamed  that  he  was  an  ant, 
and  woke  up  rather  regretful  to  find  that  he  was 
only  a  man.  I  have  great  respect  for  ants,  for 
their  executive  ability,  their  industry  in  foraging, 
and  their  enterprise  in  colonizations  are  impressive. 
When  an  ant  settlement  raises  the  red  flag,  I 
hastily  move  in  some  other  direction. 

I  never  see  an  ant  bed  that  I  don't  think  of  an 
incident  that  happened  when  I  was  in  Oxford.  A 
young  city  man  had  gone  out  to  spend  an  after 
noon  in  the  country,  enjoying  the  spring  air.  He 
walked  around  for  some  time,  then  sat  down  by 


Cntomologp  on  a  Country  $orcft  45 

the  roadside  to  rest  awhile,  till  a  glance  at  his 
watch  reminded  him  that  he  must  hurry  if  he 
would  catch  his  train.  He  rushed  to  the  station 
and  swung  into  a  section  that  happened  to  be 
empty. 

After  the  train  had  started  and  the  guard  had 
made  his  rounds,  the  young  man  began  to  experi 
ence  uncomfortable  sensations,  and  found,  to  his 
horror,  that  his  new  spring  trousers  were  covered 
with  large  ants.  He  had  unwittingly  sat  upon  an 
ant  bed  by  the  road,  and  some  of  the  citizens  had 
taken  that  opportunity  for  foreign  travel.  He 
tried  to  pick  them  off,  but  was  locally  convinced 
that  there  were  too  many  of  them  for  individual 
treatment.  So  in  despair,  he  locked  the  door  to 
his  compartment,  removed  his  trousers  and  leaned 
out  of  the  window  to  shake  off  the  ants.  But  in 
his  agitation  he  shook  a  trifle  too  hard,  for  the 
wind  whipped  his  garments  out  of  his  hand  and 
sent  them  careering  down  the  backward  track. 

Cold  with  horror  lest  a  lady  might  wish  to  enter 
his  compartment  at  the  next  station,  he  stood  at 
the  window,  making  grimaces  like  a  madman, 
when  the  train  stopped.  All  who  came  near  him 
turned  away  in  alarm,  so  he  kept  his  section  to 
himself.  But  soon  he  would  be  at  his  own  station, 


46  Jfrom  a  gxmtfjern 


and  how  could  he  go  out?  Presently  the  guard 
came  along  to  investigate  the  case  of  madness 
some  woman  had  reported,  and  the  man  asked  him 
hysterically:  "Will  you  sell  me  your  trousers?" 

"Not  when  I  have  only  one  pair,"  was  the 
answer. 

''Will  you  for  heaven's  sake  telegraph  to  the 
next  station  to  have  a  pair  there  for  me  when  I 
get  in  ?  I'll  pay  any  price  !  '  ' 

The  guard  agreed  to  do  that,  but  the  train 
arrived  almost  as  promptly  as  the  message,  so 
there  had  been  no  time  to  send  to  a  shop.  The 
desperate  untrousered  man  looked  out  of  his  win 
dow  to  see  a  grinning  official  coming  with  a  pair 
of  paint-stained  overalls  hanging  upon  his  arm. 
Some  workman  had  been  prompted  by  providence 
to  leave  them  at  the  station. 

The  unhappy  man  donned  these  and  descended 
from  the  train,  shivering  under  the  gaze  of  the 
crowd,  clad  in  natty  gray  coat  and  vest,  with 
painty  overalls  to  complete  his  costume.  He  re 
flected  wretchedly  upon  how  much  of  human  hap 
piness  depends  upon  trousers,  ungraceful  garments 
as  they  are.  But  he  walks  no  more  in  country  lanes  ! 

One  of  my  chief  joys  in  porch  life  is  studying  the 


Cntomolog?  on  a  Country  $orc6  47 

butterflies.  There  are  numbervS  of  them  about 
every  day,  of  lovely  pastel  shades,  with  their 
wings  like  painted  silken  paper,  some  golden  like 
sunbeams  that  have  suddenly  taken  wing,  some 
brown  like  the  dead  leaves  that  flutter  past  them, 
some  yellow  like  vivified  primroses,  some  like  the 
tawny  tiger-lilies  blooming  beside  the  wall,  some 
white  as  the  star  jasmine  on  the  trellis,  some  with 
the  flaming  hues  of  sunset,  and  some  like  the  pale 
dawn.  Idly  afloat  in  the  sunshine,  they  look 
like  flower-petals  from  some  enchanted  garden, 
possessing  motion  and  life,  so  that  when  they  fall, 
instead  of  perishing,  they  take  on  a  new,  unearthly 
beauty  that  will  not  die.  Or  are  they  perchance 
the  souls  of  flowers  that  faded  yesterday,  or  the 
imperishable  dreams  we  mortals  cherish,  too  deli 
cate  to  come  true,  but  too  lovely  to  be  destroyed? 
Butterflies  have  an  unimaginable  beauty,  as  if  no 
future  existed  wherein  the  frost  will  fade  the  flowers, 
and  the  impermissible  winds  strip  the  leaves  from 
the  trees  and  silence  the  bird-songs  in  the  forest, 
and  fold  these  fragile  wings  forever.  But  is  not 
beauty  indestructible,  and  has  not  a  thing  that  is 
perfect  its  own  eternity  of  loveliness? 

I  saw  a  beautiful  and  friendly  butterfly  the  other 
day  when  I  was  searching  for  four-leaf  clovers  in 


48  Jfrom  a  g>outfjern 


the  grass.  It  was  a  wonderful  creature  with 
wings<  of  lavender  blue  on  top,  and  gray  on  the 
under  side,  with  darker  shadings  at  the  tips.  It 
followed  me  closely  for  a  distance,  alighting  on 
the  hem  of  my  dress,  on  my  shoe,  on  my  shoulder, 
and  fluttering  about  my  head  as  if  in  friendly 
greeting.  A  storm  came  up  that  night,  and  as  I 
lay  snugly  under  my  cover,  I  thought  with  a  pang 
of  that  butterfly  out  in  the  wind  and  the  rain. 
It  seems  to  me  that  there  should  be  some  arrange 
ment  of  nature  whereby  such  fragile,  defenseless 
beings  as  butterflies  might  be  protected  from 
storms,  but  I  don't  know  just  how  it  could  be 
managed.  The  next  day  I  saw  that  butterfly  or 
its  double,  as  bright  and  flittery  as  ever.  Or  do 
butterflies  really  live  but  a  day,  and  was  this  a 
new  one?  I  wish  I  knew. 

Recently  I  saw  a  little  incident  that  seems 
unbelievable,  but  Lucia  and  the  Professor  were 
with  me  on  the  porch  and  saw  it,  too,  so  it  must 
be  true.  Three  butterflies  were  on  the  path  in 
the  sunlight  in  front  of  us,  gorgeous  black  and 
yellow  spotted  beings,  one  with  a  broken  wing. 
The  injured  one  could  scarcely  fly,  and  from  time 
to  time  would  flutter  to  the  ground,  as  if  giving 
up,  while  the  others  circled  over  it.  But  pres- 


(Kntomologp  on  a  Country  ^orcf)  49 

ently  as  it  was  about  to  drop  to  the  ground,  the 
two  supported  it  with  their  wings,  and  the  three 
flew  off  together. 

"Could  that  have  been  accident?"  the  Professor 
murmured  in  amazement,  while  Lucia  insisted  that 
butterflies  have  souls,  and  would  certainly  lend  a 
wing  to  help  each  other  in  time  of  need. 

There  are  no  end  of  interesting  insects  that  I  see 
from  my  porch.  I  saw  a  snail  out  of  his  shell 
to-day  taking  an  airing  in  the  lily-bed  just  below 
me.  His  house  was  much  smaller  than  he  was, 
which  fact  impressed  me  by  its  contrast  to  our 
modern  scheme  of  tenantry.  We  who  own 
houses  have  them  disproportionately  large  in 
comparison  with  ourselves,  so  that  we  are  tied 
down  to  them  and  unable  to  go  about  to  view  the 
world  as  this  carefree  snail  may  do  at  will.  Think 
how  simple  is  his  arrangement  for  furnishing, — he 
is  his  own  furniture !  He  has  no  need  for  interior 
decorators,  and  no  thought  of  moving-day  can 
enslave  his  soul.  As  for  raising  the  rent  on  his 
residence — it  simply  couldn't  be  done! 

There's  the  caterpillar  that  walked  beside  me 
yesterday  as  I  was  picking  sweet  peas.  He 
arched  his  way  between  the  rows,  coming  peril 
ously  close  to  my  feet,  which  he  had  no  means  of 


50  Jfrom  a  gxmtfjern  $orcf) 

knowing  were  harmless.  Very  brown  and  velvety, 
with  fuzzy  hair  and  lovely  mottled  markings  on 
his  back,  with  an  inquisitive  nose  and  little  black 
head,  he  wormed  his  placid  way  along,  apparently 
unconcerned  by  my  proximity.  Some  insects 
have  the  apotheosis  of  dignity. 

I  watched  Mose,  the  dark  gardener,  as  he 
worked  in  the  beds  this  morning,  attempting  to 
find  the  mole  that  has  been  ravaging  the  flowers. 
It  was  easy  to  see  where  the  mole  had  been,  by  the 
little  upheaved  mound  that  followed  his  path, 
but  Mose  couldn't  tell  where  Digger  the  Mole 
was  then.  As  he  spaded  up  the  earth,  he  disturbed 
a  colony  of  wonderful  shiny  beetles,  green  and 
bronze  that  shimmered  in  the  sun  like  exquisite 
enamel.  I  watched  them  with  envy  of  their 
gorgeous  coloring,  and  thought  how  much  more 
lovely  they  were  than  the  earth-worms  that 
wriggled  behind  the  spade.  I  wonder  if  an  earth 
worm  enjoys  life.  But  you  never  can  tell,  of 
course.  He  doesn't  have  to  answer  the  telephone, 
or  write  duty  notes,  or  wash  dishes,  or  count  the 
laundry.  He  wriggles  out  of  many  annoying 
obligations,  so  perhaps  he  is  fortunate  after  all. 
Let  us  hope  he  thinks  so,  at  least. 

While  looking  at  the  trees  through  my  good 


<£ntomolog|>  on  a  Country  $orcF>  51 

pair  of  field  glasses  the  other  day,  I  found  a  wasp 
nest  in  one  of  the  trees  not  far  away,  but  have 
made  no  journey  toward  it.  I've  always  felt 
stand-offish  toward  wasps.  I  feel  somewhat  as 
the  little  boy  in  the  Sunday  school,  who  was  told 
about  the  plagues  of  Egypt,  that  had  no  power 
to  move  stubborn  Pharaoh's  heart.  When  all 
had  been  described,  the  youngster  squirmed 
excitedly,  and  cried  out:  "I  bet  if  the  Lord  had 
thought  of  yellow  jackets,  old  Pharaoh  would  'a* 
come  round!" 

I  also  take  an  interest  in  bumblebees  at  a 
respectful  distance.  They  buzz  about  among 
the  flowers  here,  yellow-bodied,  with  black  mark 
ings,  noisy  and  pretentious,  though  they  are  less 
valuable  in  the  social  scheme  than  the  honeybees 
that  say  little  but  collect  honey  for  others.  Re 
cently  I  observed  a  bumblebee  creep  into  a  big 
hole  in  the  bank  near  a  pine  tree,  and  I  went  to 
investigate.  I  had  never  seen  a  bumblebee  at 
home  before.  I  couldn't  coax  him  out  by  friendly 
conversation,  so  I  got  my  pocket  flashlight  and 
turned  on  the  illuminations,  whereat  the  bumbler 
came  out  in  rushing  annoyance.  I  went  hastily 
back  to  the  porch. 

One  summer  I  slept  out  in  the  open,  on  an  un- 


52  Jfrcm  a  g>outf)ern 


screened  porch,  and  it  was  then  that  I  discovered 
that  the  bumblebee  wakes  up  earlier  than  any 
other  thing  in  creation.  Before  the  birds  have 
begun  to  chirp,  or  the  most  alert  rooster  to  crow, 
the  bumblebee  would  be  going  about  his  buzzi- 
ness,  droning  like  an  airplane  over  my  head. 
The  Good  Book  tells  us  sluggards  to  consider  the 
ant,  but  says  nothing  about  the  bumblebee  who 
is  the  earliest  riser  in  nature.  An  old  man  here 
recently  amused  us  by  a  droning  recitative  about 
the  "abominable  bumblebee,"  the  onomato- 
poetic  effect  of  which  was  to  imitate  exactly  the 
buzzing  of  the  bee. 

I've  been  interested  in  hearing  the  folk-songs 
about  insects  which  the  darkeys  chant  about  here. 
For  instance,  Tish  was  singing  this  gem,  while  she 
washed  off.  the  steps  the  other  morning. 

"Oh,  de  bumberlybee  am  a  pretty  little  thing; 

De  bumberlybee  am  round. 
He  gathers  honey  all  de  day 
An'  stows  hit  in  de  ground. 

CHORUS 

Reel,  Dinah,  po'  gal! 

Reel,  Dinah,  reel! 
Reel,  Dinah,  po'  gal! 

Reel,  Dinah,  reel! 


Cntomolog?  on  a  Country  $orcfj  53 

One  day  when  I  was  walkin', 

I  walked  across  de  fiel* ; 
A  bumberlybee  crope  outen  his  hole 

An'  stung  me  on  de  heel ! 

CHORUS 

Reel,  Dinah,  po'  gal! 

Reel,  Dinah,  reel! 
Reel,  Dinah,  po'  gal! 

Reel,  Dinah,  reel!" 

As  old  Aunt  Peggy  came  by  the  other  day  to 
bring  me  some  huckleberries  she  had  picked  in  the 
woods,  she  was  singing  an  old  song,  a  survival  of 
slavery  times,  when  the  patrol  was  posted  at  night 
to  catch  the  slaves  who  were  out  without  permits 
from  their  masters.  I've  heard  my  mother  sing  it 
in  my  childhood,  she  having  learned  it  from  the 
slaves  on  her  father's  plantation. 

"As  I  walked  out  to  my  corn-fiel', 
A  black  snake  stung  me  on  de  heel. 
I  jumped  up  an*  run  my  best, 
But  I  run  right  into  a  hornet's  nest. 

CHORUS 

Oh,  run,  nigger,  run,  or  de  paterroller'll  git  you! 
Run,  nigger,  run,  an'  try  to  git  home!" 


54  Jfrom  a  £>outfjern 


A  ten-year-old  ginger-cake  darkey,  one  Thomas 
Jefferson  Randolph  Jones,  was  weeding  the  flower 
bed  a  morning  or  so  ago,  to  the  tune  of  The  Grass- 
mo-whopper,  which  ballad  runs  as  follows  : 

"  De  grass-mo-whopper  settin'  on  de  sweet  potato  vine, 
De  grass-mo-whopper  settin'  on  de  sweet  potato  vine, 
De  grass-mo-whopper  settin'  on  de  sweet  potato  vine, 
Way  down  in  Alabam! 

Here  come  Mr.  Turkey-Gobble-Wobble  walkin'  up 

behin', 
Here  come  Mr.  Turkey-Gobble-Wobble  walkin'  up 

behin,' 
Here  come  Mr.  Turkey-  Gobble-  Wobble  walkin'  up 

behin', 

Way  down  in  Alabam  ! 

An'  he  picked  de  grass-mo-whopper  fum  de  sweet 

potato  vine, 
An'  he  picked  de  grass-mo-whopper  fum  de  sweet 

potato  vine, 
An'  he  picked  de  grass-mo-whopper  fum  de  sweet 

potato  vine, 

Way  down  in  Alabam! 

Den  he  smacked  his  lips  an'  say,  'You  sho  is  fine!' 
Den  he  smacked  his  lips  an'  say,  'You  sho  is  fine!' 
Den  he  smacked  his  lips  an  say,  'You  sho  is  fine!' 
Way  down  in  Alabam  ! 


€ntomoloo;p  on  a  Country  floret)  55 

An'  I  hopes  to  meet  anodder  one  ob  yo'  kin', 
An'  I  hopes  to  meet  anodder  one  ob  yo'  kin', 
An'  I  hopes  to  meet  anodder  one  ob  yo'  kin', 
Way  down  in  Alabam!" 

The  colored  folk-songs  deal  with  homely  crea 
tures  and  incidents  and  situations,  with  no  attempt 
at  refinement,  many  of  them  being  even  less  suit 
able  for  publication  than  one  I  heard  Thomas 
Jefferson  Randolph,  sometimes  called  T.  J.  R. 
and  sometimes  Randy,  for  the  saving  of  time, 
singing  recently.  It  has  for  its  theme  the  boll- 
weevil  which  is  a  menace  to  cotton  in  the  south, 
and  which  has  a  sort  of  indestructibility  discour 
aging  to  the  farmer. 

"  I  found  a  little  weevil 

An*  put  him  on  de  ice. 
I  thought  dat  dat  would  kill  him, 

But  he  said:     '  Oh,  ain't  dat  nice! 
Dis  is  my  home, — Dis  is  my  home ! ' 

I  found  another  little  weevil 

An'  put  him  in  de  sand. 
I  thought  dat  dat  would  kill  him, 

But  he  stood  it  like  a  man. 
'  Dis  is  my  home, — dis  is  my  home ! ' 

De  farmer  said  to  de  merchant, 
'Oh,  what  do  you  think  of  dat? 


56  Jfrom  a  gxmtfjent  $orcf) 

I  found  a  little  weevil 

In  my  new  Stetson  hat, — 
Huntin'  a  home,  huntin'  a  home!'" 

As  Randy  chased  a  microscopic  frog  across  the 
lawn,  he  intoned : 

"Way  down  yander  on  de  bank-ter-wank, 
Frogs  kin  jump  fum  bank  to  bank. 
Lightnin'  bugs  an'  hootin'  owls 
Are  a-singin'  songs  ob  my  ol'  gal. 
An'  de  birds  an'  de  winds  so  high 
Am  a-singin'  ob  day  gal  so  shy, —     . 
Dat  she's  so  sweet, 
When  de  moon  do  shine, — 
Dat  gal  ob  mine, 
Dat  gal  ob  mine!" 

The  colored  people  are  much  more  songful 
than  the  whites.  Music  is  in  their  souls,  and 
bubbles  forth  on  all  occasions.  The  darkeys  have 
a  song  for  every  object  in  nature,  and  for  every 
incident  of  colored  life,  as  impartial  as  the  ancient 
Greeks  in  their  personification  of  things  of  nature. 
Their  voices  are  untrained,  but  have  a  wild,  bardic 
beauty  unknown  to  white  culture,  with  a  power 
to  reach  the  heart. 

One  interesting  feature  of  darkey  folk-songs  is 
their  use  of  repetition,  which  saves  the  effort  of 


Cntomologp  on  a  Country  JDorcfj  57 

composing  new  lines,  of  course,  a  metrical  economy 
which  should  commend  itself  to  such  rhymesters 
as  sell  verse  by  the  line,  and  which  makes  for  a 
certain  monotony  in  singing.  Then  there  is  the 
practice  of  combining  parts  of  one  song  with  those 
of  another,  of  using  one  chorus  for  several  songs 
on  occasion,  and  of  changing  in  a  way  that  is 
entertaining,  yet  confusing  to  the  folklorist  on 
the  hunt  for  correct  versions  of  any  song. 

I  asked  Aunt  Mandy,  our  dusky  cook,  not  long 
ago  if  she  could  tell  me  something  of  the  folklore 
of  the  district, — a  senseless  question,  as  I  should 
have  known.  She  leaned  apologetically  on  the 
rim  of  her  dishpan,  and  said:  "Nawm,  honey, 
I  ain'  know  nothin'  'bout  folklore.  I  ain'  got  no 
eddication,  you  know, — for  I  kain'  even  read  an' 
write.  I  ain'  never  been  to  school.  You  mout 
ask  Malviny,  though,  'case  she's  got  a  teacher's 
suttificate." 

On  another  occasion,  when  she  was  telling  me 
how  to  cure  a  conjure,  I  thoughtlessly  commented 
on  its  interest  as  folklore,  when  she  said,  with  an 
indulgent  laugh  at  my  ignorance.  "Laws,  chile, 
dat  ain'  folklore!  Dat's  jes'  savin's  dat  I  learned 
fum  my  gran'mammy,  dat's  been  handed  down 
amongst  de  colored  folks  fo'  de  Lawd  knows  how 


58  Jfrom  a  gxwtfjern 


long,  jes'  fum  word  of  mouth,  you  know.  My 
gran'mammy,  she  done  learned  hit  fum  her  granny, 
what  wuz  an  African  slave.  But  ef  you  wan's 
to  larn  any  songs,  you  might  could  see  Glorina, 
dat's  got  a  singin'  machine  in  her  house.  Hit 
sings  all  sorts  ob  songs." 

Then  Aunt  Mandy  turned  back  to  her  dishpan, 
singing  : 

"  Possum  up  de  gum  stump, 

Coony  up  de  holler, 
Little  gal  at  our  house 
Fat  ez  she  kin  waller!  " 

T.  J.  R.  perched  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  porch 
this  morning,  to  rest  half  an  hour  after  having 
worked  for  fifteen  minutes  with  a  little  group  of 
willful  weeds,  and  I  heard  him  singing,  as  he 
swayed  his  body  to  and  fro  in  rhythmic  motion 
with  the  music. 

"  De  ol'  bee  makes  de  honeycomb, 

De  young  bee  makes  de  honey. 
De  nigger  makes  de  cotton  an*  corn, 
An'  de  white  man  makes  de  money. 

De  raccoon  carries  de  bushy  tail  ; 

De  possum  don't  care  'bout  no  hair. 
Mister  Rabbit,  he  come  skippin'  by, 

An'  he  ain't  got  none  to  spare. 


<£ntomologp  on  a  Country  $orcf)  59 

Monday  mornin',  break  ob  day, 

De  white  folks  got  me  gwine, 
But  Saturday  night  when  de  sun  goes  down, 

Day  yaller  gal's  on  my  min'. 

Saturday  night  an'  Sunday,  too, 

Dat  yaller  gal's  on  my  min',, 
But  Monday  mawnin',  befo'  day, 

De  white  folks  got  me  flyin'!" 

The  small  boys  about  here  have  sport  by  hunt 
ing  hornet  nests  in  the  woods,  and  enticed  me  to  go 
with  them  the  other  day.  One  found  a  nest  that 
measured  thirteen  inches  one  way  and  fourteen 
the  other.  (The  hornets  were  all  out  when  we 
measured  it !)  It  really  was  a  wonderful  thing,  with 
its  labyrinthine  little  passages,  its  paper-thin  text 
ure,  and  its  curious  shape.  Hundreds  of  hornets 
once  had  a  home  in  that,  and  descended  from  it 
to  pillage  the  country  round,  till  one  small  boy 
with  a  rifle  brought  it  down. 

I  think  I  have  enjoyed  the  study  of  hornets 
more  than  that  of  most  insects  this  summer. 
I  was  lying  on  my  couch  one  day  some  weeks 
ago,  swatting  flies  that  ventured  too  near  when  I 
noticed  a  hornet  buzzing  near  me.  I  lay  perfectly 
still,  as  he  swooped  down  after  artful  circlings,  and 
captured  a  fly  that  I  had  swatted  and  left  lying 


60  Jfrom  a  ^outftern 


on  the  couch.  Hornet  evidently  thought  it  was 
alive,  for  he  took  elaborate  precautions  not  to 
frighten  it  away.  He  caught  it  between  his  legs 
and  disappeared  round  the  corner  of  the  porch,  evi 
dently  headed  for  his  nest  somewhere  near  by. 
I  wondered  if  he  would  come  back,  so  I  prepared 
for  him.  I  put  another  fly  on  the  same  spot  where 
he  had  found  the  first  one,  identifying  the  place  by 
means  of  a  splash  of  green  paint  that  had  dropped 
on  the  couch. 

In  about  ten  minutes  that  hornet  came  back 
and  went  through  the  same  maneuvers,  captur 
ing  the  fly  by  manifest  strategy,  and  making  his 
escape  with  it.  He  sat  or>  the  couch  beside  me 
for  a  while,  washing  his  peevish  little  face  with 
his  front  legs,  and  reminding  me  of  a  queer  little 
old  woman  in  antique  garb,  —  bent  over  almost 
double,  and  with  a  sharp  line  of  demarcation  at 
his  tight-corseted  waist,  and  with  his  black  and 
yellow  petticoat  drawn  tight  about  his  ankles. 

Since  then  it  has  been  my  daily  task  to  provide 
flies  for  that  hornet,  and  his  mate  who  now  comes 
with  him.  I  have  tried  experiments  with  them, 
placing  flies  on  other  spots  beside  the  green  paint, 
but  its  no  use.  They  like  the  flavor  of  green  paint 
with  their  food,  or  else  they  have  learned  that  flies 


entomologp  on  a  Countrp  $orcf)  61 

snatched  from  there  are  more  docile  than  elsewhere, 
requiring  less  care  to  avoid  surprise.  After  some 
time  the  hornets  have  relaxed  their  vigilance,  and 
do  not  go  through  quite  the  same  precautions 
as  at  first,  but  pass  more  boldly  to  their  prey, — 
perhaps  appreciating  my  co-operation  in  the  mat 
ter.  They  never  molest  me,  but  buzz  around 
me  in  a  social  way,  coming  pretty  close  at  times 
when  occasionally  I  play  tricks  with  them,  by 
failing  to  have  any  fly  in  readiness  when  lunch 
times  comes.  Hornet  will  seize  a  fly  and  go 
through  curious,  prodding  motions,  as  if  kneading 
it  with  his  bill.  The  two  come  back  each  day,  and 
many  times  a  day,  to  go  through  the  same  per 
formance.  Afternoon  callers  all  have  to  be  shown 
my  trained  pet  hornets,  and  watch  them  snatch 
their  food.  If  I  leave  the  hornets  too  long  without 
provender,  they  (the  hornets,  not  the  callers)  buzz 
accusingly  about  my  head,  making  me  have  some 
thing  of  the  same  sensations  that  I  imagine  a 
lion-tamer  must  feel. 

But,  after  all,  flies  are  the  most  fun  to  watch. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  insect  world  that  enter 
tains  me  more  than  a  common  house  fly.  Persons 
who  are  bored,  and  who  need  an  interest  ia  life, 


62  :lfrom  a 


are  recommended  to  take  up  the  study  of  flies 
for  the  gaining  of  fresh  impressions.  No  one  can 
plead  poverty  or  lack  of  laboratory  material  for 
the  observation  of  flies,  for  any  garbage  can  even 
in  the  city  will  afford  specimens  in  plenty.  A 
few  hours  invested  in  research  work  among  flies 
will  vastly  quicken  one's  intelligence  and  liven  his 
interest. 

The  front  porch  here  is  not  screened,  so  that 
there  are  always  a  few  flies  about,  offering  them 
selves  for  experiment,  and  on  rainy  days  there  are 
national  conventions  of  them  gathered  together 
to  discuss  the  food  situation.  I  am  self-appointed 
curator  of  flies,  which  means  that  I  kill  them 
as  fast  as  possible.  I  slay  them  in  divers  ways. 
For  one  thing,  I  put  out  traps,  the  old-fashioned 
kind  made  like  a  sugar-loaf,  with  cunningly  con 
trived  openings  through  which  the  fly  has  enter 
prise  to  come,  but  never  intelligence  to  traverse 
again.  The  fly  hasn't  a  backward-working  mind, 
which  shows  that  logic  is  distinctively  human. 
Or  perhaps  his  defection  here  is  due  to  the  fact 
that  the  openings  in  question  are  usually  occupied 
by  entering  flies.  At  any  rate,  when  they  are 
once  in,  there  they  stay,  buzzing  and  crawling 
about  in  monotonous  fashion.  When  the  trap  is 


<£ntomalosp  on  a  Country  $orcfj  63 

sufficiently  full,  I  pour  boiling  water  over  it  to  kill 
the  flies  and  the  germs  they  entertain  at  the  same 
time. 

It  seems  to  me  that  monuments  are  ill-distri 
buted  in  this  world.  I  don't  see  why  a  monument 
hasn't  been  erected  to  the  men  who  invented  fly 
traps  and  swatters.  Think  how  many  lives  they 
must  have  saved  by  slaying  the  flies !  On  the  other 
hand,  I  once  read  in  a  newspaper  an  account  of 
"the  meanest  man  in  America,"  a  tramp,  who  on 
being  refused  free  food  by  a  certain  village,  went 
about  at  night  overturning  all  the  flytraps  on  the 
back  porches  and  setting  the  flies  at  liberty. 

Then  the  swatter  is  great  sport.  I  make  fancy 
strokes  or  side-curves  with  the  weapon,  after  the 
fashion  of  expert  tennis  players,  and  have  gained 
great  dexterity  in  landing  the  fly.  I  swat  in 
dustriously,  to  keep  my  trusting  hornets  supplied 
with  food,  and  to  reduce  the  number  of  flies. 
When  I  go  away  in  the  afternoon  and  think  of 
those  poor  lonesome  hornets  at  home  with  no  one 
to  kill  flies  for  them,  I  feel  conscience-swatted. 

I  kill  flies  by  poison,  too.  A  spoonful  of  for 
maldehyde  in  a  saucer  of  sweetened  water  will 
suffice,  especially  if  there's  something  with  an 
attractive  odor,  like  fermented  grape  juice  or 


64  Jfrom  a  gxwtfjern 


stale  molasses,  to  draw  them.  Flies  are  far  from 
being  prohibitionists.  You  never  see  them  on  the 
water  wagon,  but  just  watch  how  they  swarm 
over  a  truck  loaded  with  beer!  Doubtless  when 
the  country  is  actually  "dry,  "  the  flies  will  be 
found  emigrating  to  Mexico  or  other  bibulous 
countries. 

A  fly  approaches  the  saucer  that  inebriates  but 
does  not  cheer,  gingerly  at  first,  lighting  on  the 
edge  and  disdaining  to  touch  the  contents.  If  I 
wave  him  away,  and  pretend  to  be  annoyed  by  his 
presence,  he  is  spurred  to  new  interest  and  evinces 
eagerness  to  taste  the  drink.  He  will  sip  daintily 
but  ostentatiously,  and  crawl  about  the  edge  as  if 
flaunting  his  defiance  in  my  face.  He  will  always 
wash  his  face  before  and  after  drinking,  but  as  he 
uses  his  feet  for  the  purpose,  I  can't  think  he's 
much  cleaner  than  he  was  before.  Perhaps  he 
does  it  only  for  the  sake  of  example,  before  the 
children  or  outsiders,  and  really  he  doesn't  like  a 
cold  plunge  any  better  than  his  neighbors. 

Presently,  having  tasted  the  drink,  he  will 
saunter  round  the  saucer  and  light  on  the  floor. 
His  walk  gradually  becomes  a  bit  leery,  and  he 
looks  sea-sick  or  intoxicated.  He  begins  to  move 
round  and  round  in  a  circle,  the  circle  dizzily 


6ntomologp  on  a  Cottntrp  $orcf)  65 

narrowing  as  his  ill-feeling  increases,  till  at  last 
he  is  whizzing  madly  without  moving  from  the 
spot.  As  the  speed  decreases,  his  movements 
become  more  sporadic,  till  at  last  he  hesitates, 
falters — is  still. 

On  a  rainy  day,  when  the  dampness  drives  the 
flies  in  from  the  grass  and  the  trees,  this  danse 
macabre  is  intensely  interesting  to  watch.  When 
several  score  flies  are  spinning  at  once,  in  mad 
dervish  fashion,  one  grows  dizzy  oneself. 

The  darkeys  have  a  saying  that  if  you  kill  one 
fly,  ten  more  will  come  to  its  funeral,  which  I  can 
believe  to  be  true,  for  the  crowd  collects,  whether 
impelled  by  sympathy  or  curiosity  or  thirst, 
however,  it  would  be  hard  to  say.  When  death 
approaches;  a  fly  will  turn  his  face  to  the  ceiling, 
which  has  always  been  his  sanctuary  from  a  too 
impetuous  swatter,  and  which  he  gazes  at  with 
longing. 

I  have  noticed  one  interesting  fact  in  connection 
with  flies  and  colored  folks.  Darkeys  are  fond  of 
flies,  and  protect  them  from  white  molestation 
wherever  possible.  Aunt  Mandy,  our  elderly 
cook  here,  is  annoyed  by  my  efforts  to  exterminate 
the  flies  and  seeks  to  forestall  me  in  devious  ways. 
If  I  press  the  battle  to  the  gates  in  her  own  field, 


66  Jfrom  a  g>outfjern  $orcf) 

bringing  my  swatter  or  my  fly  paper  into  her 
kitchen,  she  grumbles  that  she  is  monstrous  busy 
and  needs  all  the  room,  though  she  never  under 
other  conceivable  circumstances  needs  all  her 
room  when  I  wish  to  visit  with  her.  She  complains 
that  screens  hurt  her  eyes  to  see  through,  and 
that  fly  paper  upsets  her,  while  she  can  give  me  a 
look  of  cold  animadversion  when  she  has  to  step 
around  or  over  one  of  my  medicated  saucers  on 
the  porch. 

"I  never  see  such  a  to-do  over  a  few  little 
flies!"  she  complains  to  the  skillet.  "What  is 
flies,  anyway,  dat  dey  is  goin'  to  hurt  you?" 

"But,  Aunt  Mandy, "  I  argued  one  day,  with 
poised  swatter  in  hand,  "flies  carry  germs  and 
give  diseases." 

She  rattled  the  pans  on  the  stove  irately. 
"Huh!  I  been  havin'  flies  roun'  me  all  my  bawn 
days,  an'  dey  ain'  never  hu't  me  yit!  My  ol' 
mistis,  what  raised  me  fum  a  pickaninny,  used  to 
hab  us  bresh  dem  away  fum  de  table  wid  a  peach 
tree  switch, — dat's  all  she  did, —  and  folks  was 
more  healthier  den  dan  dey  is  now." 

"But,  Aunt  Mandy, "  I  insisted,  going  after  one 
agile  fly  which  danced  before  me,  "these  flies  are 
more  intelligent  and  progressive  than  they  used 


on  a  Country  -porcf)  67 


to  be.  These  flies  now  go  to  college  and  learn  all 
about  germs,  and  read  the  newspapers,  to  find  out 
mischief  they  can  do.  They'll  kill  us  if  they  can, 
so  the  only  thing  for  us  to  do  is  to  swat  them 
first." 

She  put  a  stick  of  wood  in  the  stove  so  she  might 
have  an  excuse  for  slamming  something. 

''Shucks!  Dey's  been  flies  ever  since  Old  Testa 
ment  times,  when  Pharaoh  was  livin',  an'  de  good 
Lawd  done  put  dem  here  for  some  good  puppose. 
I  ain'  gwine  kill  dem,  —  I  jes'  gwine  bresh  dem 
away  offen  my  victuals." 

I  retired  from  the  argument,  to  place  a  sheet  of 
fly  paper  on  the  back  porch  and  watch  the  efforts 
of  the  ensnared  to  extricate  themselves.  Occasion 
ally  one  more  active  than  his  fellows  would  get 
away  and  crawl  off,  but  with  a  lessened  confidence 
in  the  world.  Presently  the  kitten  came  playing 
up,  and  casually  stuck  a  paw  on  the  paper.  When 
that  stuck,  she  put  down  another  to  pry  herself 
loose,  and  in  a  minute  had  all  four  feet  fast 
prisoners.  She  tried  to  roll  over  and  extricate  her 
self  in  that  way,  which  of  course  only  made  mat 
ters  worse. 

By  the  time  I  could  catch  the  flying  sheet 
with  kitten  inside  it,  she  was  a  funny  sight.  I 


68  Jfrom  a  £>otttf)ern 


had  to  wash  her  with  soap  and  water  and  a 
brush,  since  when  she  licks  herself  reproachfully 
when  she  is  in  my  neighborhood,  and  has  not 
ventured  on  the  porch  again.  I  know  that  she 
went  straight  to  tell  her  grievances  to  Aunt  Mandy, 
who  is  feeding  her  far  more  than  is  good,  to  make 
up  to  her  for  her  mishap.  That  kitten  reminds 
me  of  a  remark  a  woman  made  to  me  not  long 
ago,  concerning  her  discontent  with  herself  and  her 
environment.  She  said,  "I'm  like  a  fly  stuck  on  a 
piece  of  fly  paper.  I  can't  get  away  from  myself  !  " 
There  are  many  like  her,  I  fancy. 

I  like  to  psychoanalyze  the  flies.  They  are 
very  inquisitive,  for  instance,  —  eager  to  investi 
gate  anything,  taste  anything,  crawl  over  any 
object  from  a  buzz-saw  to  a  bald  head.  If  they 
could  record  their  observations  concerning  their 
surroundings,  science  would  have  new  facts  to 
collate.  Then  they  are  so  contrary,  always  doing 
what  you  wish  them  not  to  !  If  you  try  to  take  a 
nap,  one  small  fly  can  rouse  you  to  a  state  of 
wakeful  wrath.  If  you  are  trying  to  eat  with  one 
fly  near,  he  can  poison  you  by  the  rage  he  engen 
ders  in  you  as  well  as  by  the  germs  he  depos 
its  on  your  plate.  Flies  are  the  most  obstinate 
creatures  in  the  universe  for  they  never  give  up 


<£ntomolog|>  OH  a  Country  $ord)  69 

an  undertaking.  They  don't  know  how  to  desist. 
They  are  dangerously  ambitious,  seeking  the  high 
places  of  the  house,  looking  toward  the  ceiling  as 
their  real  home,  where  only  a  tall  man  on  a  step- 
ladder  could  swat  them.  They  are  individualists, 
each  one  foraging  for  himself,  with  disregard  for 
family  ties. 

Flies  are  useful,  in  providing  many  a  woman 
an  interest  in  life,  an  outlet  for  her  activity,  which 
otherwise  might  be  wasted  or  misemployed. 
Fly-swatting  releases  all  the  evil  impulses  in  hu 
manity,  gives  one's  antagonism  an  airing,  keeps 
alive  the  healthy  disposition  to  fight, — yet  without 
harming  society  in  any  way, — and  in  general 
provides  the  same  pleasurable  thrill  that  any  great 
sport  does,  like  killing  wild  beasts.  An  exces 
sively  neat  housekeeper,  a  sort  of  domestic  dude, 
gains  as  much  delight  from  swatting  flies  as  any 
mightier  hunter  does  from  killing  lions  or  ele 
phants.  The  desire  to  smite  and  slay  is  inborn  in 
man — and  woman — and  if  given  no  outlet  such  as 
swatting  flies,  is  liable  to  lead  to  destructive  wars. 
If  the  former  kaiser  had  relieved  his  feelings 
by  swatting  flies  a  few  years  back,  the  world 
might  have  been  spared  much  more  dangerous 
combat. 


7<>  Jfrom  a  gxmtfjern 


I  think  that  there  should  be  compulsory  drill 
in  fly-swatting,  with  all  sorts  of  inducements  for 
skill  in  the  sport.  There  should  be  developed 
intercollegiate  contests,  with  international  meet 
ings  once  a  year.  Fly-swatting  affords  healthful 
play  for  all  the  muscles  and  would  be  far  less 
dangerous  to  students  than  football.  Think  of 
the  different  movements  necessaiy  to  kill  one  fly 
sound  in  wind  and  wing,  —  running,  jumping, 
beating  with  the  arms,  expansion  of  the  lungs  in 
ejaculations,  stooping,  and  high  leaping. 

Fly-swatting  falls  naturally  into  two  classifica 
tions,  according  to  the  motive  that  prompts  it. 
Some  women  swat  from  a  purely  utilitarian 
impulse  to  rid  the  house  of  flies,  —  while  others 
strike  for  entertainment,  as  I  do.  These  are 
not  my  flies,  and  I  feel  no  actual  responsibility 
for  their  extermination,  which  fact  in  no  wise 
lessens  my  interest  in  the  sport.  The  Doctor 
says  that  my  coat  of  arms  should  be  a  fly-swatter 
rampant,  with  a  trap  couchant  on  a  sheet  of  fly 
paper,  and  that  I'll  find  paradise  dull  if  there 
aren't  any  flies  there  to  chase. 

As  I  watch  the  flies  by  day,  by  night  I  study  the 
fireflies,  but  with  how  different  emotions!  These 


Entomology  on  a  Country  $orcf)  71 

lovely  little  things  should  have  a  more  poetic 
name,  I  think,  for  what  relation  have  they  to  the 
unclean,  impertinent  insect  whose  name  they 
bear?  I  often  wonder  what  is  the  physiological 
explanation  of  the  luminosity  of  the  lightning- 
bug  or  the  glowworm,  that  intermittent,  palpitant 
lamp  that  seems  miraculous  yet  is  a  myriad  nightly 
spectacle.  How  wonderful  if  we  human  beings 
could  have  such  power  of  emitting  light, — a 
sort  of  personal  flash  to  be  turned  on  at  will! 
How  it  would  aid  one  on  dark  streets  at  night,  how 
advantageous  it  would  be  for  finding  lost  articles 
in  the  hall  closet,  how  tremendously  helpful  for 
locating  the  elusive  keyhole  at  midnight!  Yet 
maybe  the  cost  of  upkeep  for  that  light  would  be 
too  great,  considering  everything.  Before  I  had 
it  installed  in  me,  I  should  wish  to  have  an  estimate 
as  to  how  much  of  my  vitality  would  be  expended 
to  keep  it  burning.  Maybe  the  candle  wouldn't 
be  worth  the  game.  We  have  no  power  of  know 
ing  what  that  firefly  sacrifices  to  furnish  illumina 
tion  for  us.  If  it  only  could  speak,  it  would  shed 
light  on  the  subject,  but  perhaps  it  is  ungrateful 
in  us  to  be  interested  in  it,  as  if  it  were  only  a 
subject  for  light  reflection  of  human  life. 

There  is  no  spectacle  more  beautiful  than  a  dark 


72  .tfrom  a  ^outfjern 


lawn  on  a  Southern  night,  when  countless  fireflies 
are  showing  their  dartling  golden  beams,  like 
little  living  stars  that  lose  their  way  and  waver  in 
a  futile  search  for  it.  A  firefly  is  alovely  and 
pathetic  thing. 

Pale  flowers  of  flame 

Torching  the  desert  night,  — 

What  are  you? 

Wandering  thoughts  that  drift 

Remorseful,  unrelated,  without  rest, 

From  some  tormented  brain? 

Burning  words 

Flung  from  wild  passion  or  delight  or  woe 

To  live  in  visible  echoes,  silent,  winged? 

Palpitant  prayers 

Of  what  unknown  desires  ? 

Bodiless  yearnings,  deathless,  unexpressed, 

Never  to  be  fulfilled? 

Ghost  moths, 

Ministers  from  some  incommunicable  beyond, 

Muted,  or  messageless? 

Or  merely  witless  insects  of  an  hour, 

Suffering  physical  change? 


Ill 

PORCH  REPTILES 

WHY  do  people  dislike  reptiles?  Is  the  horror 
of  all  creeping  things  instinctive,  or  merely  a  reflex 
of  popular  expression  on  the  subject?  Is  it  be 
cause  reptiles  are  cold? — but  that  shouldn't  be  a 
valid  objection  in  warm  countries,  at  least.  Is  it 
because  of  a  certain  sliminess,  real  or  imagined? 
But  fish  are  slimy,  too,  and  nobody  despises  them. 
Some  reptiles  are  dangerous,  it  is  true,  but  so  are 
lions,  for  instance,  and  parrots  with  sharp  beaks, 
and  little  dogs  that  snap  at  your  heels, — but  they 
arouse  no  shudder  of  repulsion.  Is  the  human 
aversion  to  the  snake,  for  example,  based  wholly 
on  the  thought  that  the  devil  once  assumed  his 
form,  and  do  we  have  a  lingering  notion  that  the 
tenant  still  hangs  about?  Do  we  loathe  toads — 
some  of  us,  I  mean — because  colored  persons  and 
small  boys  tell  us  if  we  handle  them  we'll  get 
warts  on  our  fingers?  Darkeys  assure  us  that  the 
tree  toad  is  poisonous,  and  that  its  bite  will  kill, — 

73 


74  Jfrom  a  £>owtf)ern 


but  is  that  folk-superstition,  or  has  it  any  basis  in 
science  ? 

I  had  often  been  hearing  the  tree  toads  in  the 
trees  near  the  porch,  but  without  being  able  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  one,  as  they  are  extremely  shy 
creatures  and  begin  to  move  about  only  when  the 
dusk  falls.  They  can  be  heard  croaking  about 
coming  or  going  rain,  but  they  stay  close  in  all 
day.  The  tree  toad's  protective  coloring  is  a 
help  to  further  his  privacy.  The  little  thing 
moves  so  softly  that  its  brown  body  fairly  blends 
with  the  brown  of  the  tree  trunk,  and  the  mottled 
shading  of  the  bark  is  reflected  in  the  colors  of  the 
little  creature  itself.  But  I  was  eager  to  see  one,  so 
I  finally  asked  Mose,  the  gardener,  if  he  couldn't 
find  one  for  me. 

Mose's  eyes  opened  wide  at  the  request. 

'  '  Why  ,  Mis  tis  !    Whaff  ur  you  wan  '  a  tree  toad  ?  '  ' 

"I  want  to  study  it,  —  and  I  think  it  would  make 
a  nice  pet.  " 

The  whites  of  his  eyes  rolled  alarmingly.  '  '  Lawsy, 
Mistis!  I  ain'  wantin'  to  ketch  one  ob  dem  things 
fo'you!  I  done  hear  dey's  p'isonous.  I'm  skeered 
ob  dem.  Ef  dey  bites  you,  hit  kills  you.  " 

"Oh,  nonsense  —  I  don't  believe  that's  so." 

"Wellum,  Mistis,  I  ain'  know  dat  hit's  so,  but  I 


75 


ain'  know  hit  ain't  so.  I  allus  hearn  tell  dat  hit  is. 
But  hit  mout  be  lack  what  dey  says  abouten  frogs 
in  general,  dat  dey'll  kill  you  ef  dey  bite  you,  but 
dey  ain'  got  no  teeth  to  bite  you  wid ! ' ' 

But  Mose  never  found  it  convenient  to  catch  a 
tree  toad  for  me,  I  noticed.  Prejudices  are  so 
difficult  of  dislodgment,  and  an  operation  to  re 
move  one  from  the  mind  is  as  difficult  and  painful 
as  a  major  physical  operation.  Colored  minds  are 
particularly  opposed  to  such  efforts. 

I  notice  that  most  persons,  women  in  particular, 
have  a  like  aversion  to  lizards.  They  look  jumpy 
when  a  lizard  darts  near  them — manifesting  agita 
tion  of  mind  and  of  skirt — but  lizards  are  harm 
less,  useful,  and  beautiful  creatures,  which  is  vastly 
more  than  can  be  said  of  all  women.  Gila  monsters 
are  as  rare  in  lacertian  as  in  feminine  form,  so 
that  it  seems  unjust  for  their  reputation  to  incrimi 
nate  the  whole  genus.  I  believe  that  the  world 
is  unfair  to  reptiles,  and  contend  that  there  should 
be  a  revision  and  reversion  of  popular  ideas  con 
cerning  them. 

This  country  porch,  facing  the  near-by  lake  as  it 
does,  and  with  a  brook  running  like  a  ruffle  round 
the  skirt  of  the  hill,  is  a  good  place  in  which  to 
study  reptiles.  I  really  like  watching  them.  The 


76  Jftom  a  &>oitt&ern 


swinging  couch  in  which  I  loaf  makes  an  admirable 
point  of  vantage  for  such  entertainment,  since  with 
my  feet  off  the  floor,  I  can  observe  at  ease  the  creep 
ing  life  about  me. 

Turtles  are  extremely  entertaining.  While  I 
usually  have  to  leave  my  porch  to  study  them, 
occasionally,  however,  one  does  come  to  me,  so 
that  I  may  porch  and  turtle  at  the  same  time.  But 
anyhow,  the  lake  is  close  at  hand.  I  walk  along 
the  water's  edge,  creeping  with  a  reptilian  stealth 
toward  the  turtles  sleeping  on  the  bank.  I  don't 
wish  to  catch  them  —  I  only  wish  to  watch  them  — 
but  they  fail  to  recognize  subtle  distinctions  of 
motive,  hence  are  suspicious  of  me.  On  sighting 
me,  they  slide  off  into  the  water,  with  no  sound 
and  scarcely  a  ripple.  Fish,  now,  leap  noisily  and 
splashily  about,  but  all  reptiles  have  a  self-effacing 
manner,  an  apologetic  air  that  is  oddly  pathetic. 
They  seem  to  realize  that  they  have  few  friends, 
and  disbelieve  that  I  am  kindly  disposed,  merely 
a  curious  woman  with  no  animosity. 

Little  turtles  have  a  naive,  engaging  way  of 
coming  up  to  take  a  look  at  the  world  that  is  amus 
ing.  I  saw  one  round  little  fellow  the  other  day 
who  sat  awkwardly  and  stodgily  on  the  top  of  a 
floating  log,  peering  with  nearsighted  eyes  full  of 


77 


crafty  indifference  at  the  passers-by.  I  wished  to 
look  closely  at  him,  but  he  was  annoyed  in  a  stolid 
fashion,  perhaps  jealous  of  my  designs  upon  his 
log,  so  I  went  by  on  the  other  side. 

I  have  seen  as  many  as  a  dozen  turtles  of  as 
sorted  sizes,  asleep  on  one  log  out  in  the  lake. 
Again  and  again  I  have  tried  to  come  close  to  them 
without  alarming  them,  sneaking  up  with  sound 
less  oar  in  my  little  boat.  But  it's  no  use!  They 
always  hear  me,  or  see  me,  or  smell  my  approach.  I 
think  they  have  a  sentry  posted  on  a  "listening  log, " 
to  warn  the  others,  and  when  they  once  discover 
me,  they  slip  down  and  are  gone  before  I  get  there. 
When  I  row  up,  there's  only  a  cross-eyed  log, 
floating  nakedly  in  the  lake,  to  reward  my  efforts. 
I've  thought  of  leaving  a  polite  little  note  to  ex 
plain  my  honorable  intentions,  but  no  doubt  my 
diplomacy  is  insufficient  to  convince  a  turtle.  It's 
disconcerting  to  be  so  misunderstood  and  thwarted 
in  my  hopes  and  plans.  If  I  were  a  turtle,  I 
shouldn't  be  such  a  misanthrope!  I  know  of  no 
basis  for  their  suspicions,  for  I've  never  heard 
of  anybody's  molesting  one  of  these  turtles,  but 
some  creatures  are  utterly  unreasonable  in  their 
suspicions.  I  am  disconcerted  that  turtles  persist 
in  thinking  me  their  foe — me,  who'd  like  nothing 


78  Jfrom  a  g>outf)erit 


better  than  to  shake  their  paws  and  sit  beside 
them  on  a  log  to  chat  about  matters  of  current 
interest. 

I  love  to  watch  a  turtle  swim,  with  nothing  show 
ing  above  the  water  but  his  little  round  head,  and 
with  his  bright  glancing  eyes  alert  for  approach  of 
danger.  A  turtle  crossing  the  road  in  front  of  an 
automobile  is  an  impressive  spectacle.  He  goes 
deliberately,  as  if  he  would  not  hurry  for  the 
crowning  or  the  uncrowning  of  kings.  He  seems  to 
feel  that  the  automobile  is  a  thing,  which  therefore 
cannot  hurt  him,  while  a  woman  on  foot  is  dis 
tinctly  to  be  feared.  He  is  the  one  wild  creature 
that  a  motor  car  never  agitates.  You  would  think 
from  his  demeanor  that  he  had  a  mud  garage  full 
of  the  latest  makes  of  racers  and  limousines,  so 
familiar  is  his  scorn  of  them. 

Turtles  occasionally  come  on  excursions  up  the 
hill,  so  that  I  may  watch  one  separated  from  his 
fellows,  and  with  the  advantages  of  being  on  land 
instead  of  in  the  water.  These  creatures  that  live 
double  lives  are  reticent  as  to  investigation  of  their 
habits.  I  saw  one  walking  lurchily  in  a  flower-bed 
the  other  morning  and  descended  to  observe  him 
at  close  range.  He  stood  quite  still  when  he  saw 
me  coming,  for  I  was  between  him  and  the  water, 


79 


so  that  he  had  no  way  of  escape.  He  was  a  round, 
dumpy  small  fellow,  perhaps  taking  his  first  jour 
ney  away  from  home  unchaperoned.  After  I  had 
waited  a  few  minutes  to  assure  him  that  I  meant 
no  harm,  I  picked  him  up  gingerly  to  look  at  him, 
but  immediately  he  drew  in  his  head  and  legs, 
leaving  only  the  round  shell  visible.  He  stayed 
still  as  long  as  I  held  him,  but  when  I  put  him  on 
the  ground,  he  waddled  craftily  off  toward  the 
lake.  I  think  it  was  a  mistake  for  me  to  pick  him 
up,  for  now  maybe  he'll  be  afraid  to  come  back, 
and  I'd  like  to  see  him  again. 

I  found  a  larger  turtle  once  asleep  on  the  bank 
halfway  down  the  hill,  where  wild  ferns  grow.  He 
was  entirely  in  his  shell,  save  for  the  right  hind  leg 
thrown  out  like  a  flying  buttress.  I  crept  up  close 
to  him,  and  squatted  down  beside  him,  to  study 
him,  but  though  I  was  as  silent  as  I  could  be,  he 
woke  up  to  find  me  there.  Turtles  have  a  sixth 
or  seventh  sense  where  I  am  concerned.  He 
looked  at  me  first  from  inside  his  shell,  his  beady 
eyes  blinking  nervously.  I  made  no  sound  nor 
motion,  pretending  to  be  the  stump  of  a  tree,  and 
thus  we  remained  for  about  five  minutes.  Finally 
he  thrust  out  his  head  slowly,  very  slowly,  with 
cautious  cranings  to  and  fro,  twisting  his  head  on 


8o  Jftom  a 


his  warty  brown  neck,  from  side  to  side,  with  ever 
a  crafty  eye  fixed  on  me.  Then  he  poked  out  a 
leg  at  a  time  till  he  had  mobilized  the  requisite 
number  for  escape  in  case  I  proved  dangerous. 
We  remained  like  that  for  another  five  minutes  or 
so.  He  couldn't  make  out  what  my  litttle  game 
was,  and  I  was  curious  to  see  what  he'd  do  next. 

His  brown,  curved  back  was  covered  with  quaint 
irregular  markings  that  reminded  me  of  the  mural 
drawings  in  the  ruined  Aztec  temple  of  Mitla, 
in  Mexico.  His  neck  and  ears,  which  needed 
washing  (his  mother  isn't  a  bit  careful  of  his 
toilet!),  were  of  a  dark,  muddy  brown,  perhaps 
with  some  local  color  from  the  lake-bank,  perhaps 
with  a  protective  shading  to  make  him  less  con 
spicuous,  hence  more  secure  from  his  enemies.  On 
his  neck  and  head  were  lines  of  bright  yellow  and 
scarlet,  in  addition  to  which  there  was  one  spot  of 
yellow  on  each  side  of  his  head.  The  telescoped 
skin  of  his  neck  was  like  a  gay  ruff  about  his 
head.  His  front  legs  were  marked  with  red,  but 
no  yellow,  while  his  hind  legs  were  all  brown. 

When  I  had  examined  him  to  my  satisfaction,  I 
indicated  that  the  interview  was  at  an  end,  by 
withdrawing  —  casting  backward  glances  to  see 
what  Turtle  meant  to  do.  He  watched  me  as 


81 


far  as  the  curve  of  the  path  would  permit,  after 
which  he  drew  back  into  his  shell  (I  was  peek 
ing  round  the  corner  of  the  wall,  to  see)  to  finish 
his  nap.  He  hadn't  said  a  word  during  the 
whole  time,  so  that  I  couldn't  tell  what  he  thought 
of  me.  I  don't  know  the  sound  of  a  turtle's  ac 
cents,  though  the  statement  in  the  Song  of 
Solomon,  that  "the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard 
in  the  land"  has  always  interested  me.  Perhaps 
modern  turtles  have  lost  their  power  of  utterance. 
Of  course,  I  don't  hold  with  the  unimaginative 
commentators  that  consider  this  a  reference  to 
the  turtle-dove. 

I  combined  a  turtling  and  fishing  expedition  the 
other  day,  going  out  in  a  boat  with  a  boy  small 
enough  to  be  used  for  bait,  so  that  I  had  to  be 
careful  not  to  stick  him  on  the  hook,  in  place  of  the 
grasshoppers  he  had  so  diligently  collected  for  the 
occasion.  We  didn't  catch  anything,  to  my  grati 
fication,  and  the  boy's  grief.  I  don't  go  fishing  to 
catch  fish,  but  merely  to  fish. 

We  stopped  to  examine  some  small  pools  near 
the  bank,  where  tadpoles  were  darting  about.  The 
child  watched  them  for  a  minute  or  two  without 
speaking,  then  he  cried  admiringly,  "Ain't  they 
funny  little  things? — just  like  bedbugs  with  tails !" 


82  Jfrom  a  ^otttijcrn 


Snakes  are  great  fun,  too.  I've  been  much  in 
terested  in  the  shape  of  snakes,  for  it  seems  incred 
ible  that  they  can  get  around  as  quickly  as  they  do, 
with  such  unconventional  forms.  I've  seen  pic 
tures  of  the  Garden  of  Eden,  with  the  serpent 
tempting  Eve,  standing  up  gracefully  on  the  tip  of 
his  tail,  and  conversing  affably.  I  should  like  to 
see  snakes  like  that!  I've  seen  them  only  flat  on 
the  ground,  which  isn't  so  dignified  —  though  a 
snake  is  always  graceful.  There's  always  a  certain 
beauty  about  him  as  he  glides  across  the  ground, 
or  when  he  is  coiled,  a  proud  humility  in  his  move 
ments.  He's  graceful,  too,  when's  he's  angry  and 
ready  to  strike. 

I  used  to  visit  in  West  Texas,  where  it  was  one 
of  the  local  sports  to  ride  across  the  prairie  and 
shoot  rattlesnakes  on  horseback.  (We  were  on 
horseback,  not  the  snakes.)  They  lived  in  prairie- 
dog  holes,  and  could  be  seen  sunning  themselves 
on  the  mounds  at  the  entrance  to  the  dog  houses 
—  the  mounds  which  were  prairie  dog  and  snake 
equivalents  of  porches.  I  once  shot  a  rattler  that 
had  eleven  rattles  and  a  button,  which  means  that 
he  was  twelve  years  old. 

Snakes  were  so  plentiful  on  the  Texas  prairies, 
that  men  made  a  business  of  catching  them  for  the 


83 


market,  to  sell  them  by  the  pound  to  museums, 
circuses  and  the  like.  Once  I  went  to  see  the  stock 
in  trade  of  a  snake  dealer  in  Abilene.  He  had 
hundreds  of  snakes  in  an  immense  box,  and  lifting 
the  lid,  he  would  pick  up  a  handful  of  squirmers 
and  pet  them.  He  offered  to  let  me  stroke  one, 
but  my  interest  in  reptiles  did  not  extend  to  fond 
ling.  He  said  that  they  were  harmless,  since  he 
had  extracted  the  venom,  but  he  was  overcon 
fident,  as  not  long  after  my  visit,  he  was  bitten 
by  one  of  his  charges  and  died.  How  sharp  indeed 
must  be  the  tooth  of  a  thankless  serpent ! 

I  haven't  seen  any  rattlesnakes  in  Virginia,  the 
only  dangerous  specimens  about  here  being  the 
water  moccasin,  the  highland  moccasin  and  the 
spreading  adder.  There  are  moccasins  in  the  dark 
pools  by  the  little  stream,  but  they  don't  molest 
anyone  who  lets  them  alone.  I've  seen  black 
snakes,  alarmingly  large,  but  said  to  be  harmless, 
along  the  fence  by  the  blackberry  vines,  but  they 
seem  as  eager  to  avoid  an  encounter  as  I  am,  so 
we  haven't  struck  an  acquaintance  yet.  One  black 
snake  was  discovered  placidly  sunning  himself  on 
the  ledge  of  the  front  porch  not  long  ago,  and 
only  yawned  and  winked  his  eye  at  a  noisy  au 
tomobile  that  snorted  up  and  stopped  beside  it. 


84  Jfrom  a  g>otitfjern  $orcfj 

And  a  country  neighbor  told  us  recently  that  he 
had  been  sitting  on  his  front  porch,  reading,  when 
he  heard  a  stir  beneath  his  chair,  and  looked  down 
to  see  a  big  spreading  adder,  just  ready  to 
strike. 

The  other  day  Mose,  who  has  a  standing  request 
from  me  to  bring  me  anything  he  finds,  living  or 
dead,  brought  me  some  little  snakes  about  a  foot 
long,  which  he  had  killed  in  the  coal  bin.  They 
were  hanging  over  a  stick,  so  I  examined  them 
closely. 

"What  kind  of  snakes  are  these,  Mose?"  I 
asked,  twisting  the  stick  around  for  a  better  look 
at  them. 

"Dey's  no-biggers,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?  What's  their 
name?" 

"Dat's  de  onliest  name  I  is  ever  heerd  fo'  dem, 
Mistis.  Dey  don'  grow  no  bigger,  you  sees. " 

' ' That's  a  dandy  name  for  them ! "  I  commented 
thoughtfully.  "Very  symbolic.  I've  known  peo 
ple  who  never  grow  any  bigger.  I  know  plenty 
of  no-biggers." 

"Yas'm, "  Mose  grinned,  as  he  walked  away, 
trailing  the  little  snakes  across  the  stick,  to  hang 
them  on  the  fence  so  the  rain  would  come. 


i&eptfle*  85 


I  fell  to  musing  concerning  the  unnatural  history 
type  Mose  had  suggested  to  me.  Why  are  no- 
biggers?  Why  does  that  certain  little  snake  stop 
growing,  when  other  reptiles  keep  on  gaining  in 
length  and  waist  measure?  Does  he  realize  that 
he's  a  case  of  arrested  development — and  does  the 
knowledge  pain  him? 

Why  are  certain  men  no-biggers?  Is  it  because 
a  definite  vital  element  necessary  for  proper  devel 
opment  is  taken  away  from  their  lives  at  a  critical 
time?  Might  a  healthy  mind  become  a  no-bigger, 
for  instance,  if  married  to  a  bank  account  that 
necessitated  no  further  exertion  for  a  livelihood? 
Is  no-biggerness  contagious  by  any  chance? 
Might  a  husband  or  wife  become  one,  having  un 
knowingly  married  into  such  a  family?  Young 
ambition  is  a  tender  thing  easily  stunted,  and 
zeal  may  be  stultified  by  a  chilly  atmosphere,  no 
doubt. 

Is  one  a  moral  no-bigger  because  the  stimulus 
of  exterior  influence  is  too  soon  removed — as  for 
instance  when  a  church-worker  in  a  small  town 
comes  to  the  city  and  becomes  religiously  qui 
escent?  It  is  pretty  certain  that  moral  no-bigger- 
ness  is  contagious,  and  infectious — so  that  if 
churches  could  only  discover  the  antitoxin,  all 


86  Jfrom  a  j&outtjcrn  $ord) 

would  be  well.  Science  has  discovered  the  efficacy 
of  injecting  certain  vital  principles  into  arrested 
physical  organisms,  causing  stunted  children  to 
resume  their  growth .  Why  shouldn '  t  some  million 
aire  establish  a  foundation  for  investigation  of  the 
causes  and  the  cure  for  the  mental  no-biggers,  the 
moral  morons?  Yet  possibly  there  are  too  many 
of  us  to  receive  adequate  treatment.  A  classified 
list  would  bring  embarrassment  in  any  circle, 
though  laboratory  research  and  inoculations  might 
be  carried  on  in  secret. 

Lizards  are  another  of  my  reptilian  delights. 
They  are  shy  creatures,  but  they  seem  to  know 
that  I  won't  harm  them,  hence  they  come  freely 
up  on  the  porch,  perhaps  because  of  the  coolness  of 
the  cement  on  warm  days,  and  the  warmth  of  my 
welcome.  I  am  amazed  by  the  quickness  of  the 
lizard's  motions.  He's  the  swiftest  living  thing, 
I  dare  say,  for  if  he  moves  at  all  he  goes  like  greased 
lightning,  while  if  he  pauses,  he  stops  stone-still. 
I  have  often  been  swinging  in  the  couch  and  have 
seen  a  lizard  dart  across  the  floor  before  he  saw  me. 
When  his  bright  glancing  eyes  would  spy  me,  he 
would  either  dart  away  at  once,  or  stop  dead-still 
to  see  what  I  meant  to  do.  I  would  stay  as  quiet 


$orctj  Reptiles  87 


as  possible  to  watch  him.  There  was  one  here  this 
morning  that  fixed  his  jeweled  eyes  upon  me  for 
several  minutes  before  he  shot  away.  As  he  gave 
one  last  look,  he  winked  at  me — I'm  positive  he 
did! 

Some  lizards  are  here  every  day,  fearless  if  I'm 
alone,  but  shy  in  the  presence  of  a  porch  full  of 
people.  Some  of  my  lizards  are  all  green,  some  are 
brown,  some  have  green  stripes  down  their  backs, 
with  lighter  shadings  on  the  under  side,  while 
others  are  of  a  lovely  bronze-green  that  shimmers 
in  the  sun.  I  frequently  see  here  the  blue-tailed 
lizards  that  are  supposed  to  be  a  rare  variety.  Oc 
casionally  a  blood-red  lizard,  a  salamander,  comes 
to  visit  me,  a  flashing  guest  that  makes  a  whole 
day  brighter  by  his  passing.  I  suppose  it  must  be 
rather  dangerous  to  have  such  conspicuous  beauty, 
however,  and  the  less  brilliant  shades  are  safer. 
It  is  a  rich  experience  to  me  to  see  a  salamander — 
like  seeing  Shelley  plain !  I  wish  there  were  more 
of  them  about  here,  as  there  are  in  the  Catskills, 
for  instance,  where  they  come  out  on  sunny  days 
in  early  summer,  to  enjoy  the  open  road,  when  there 
are  few  passers-by.  When  I  see  one,  I  think  of 
Walter  De  la  Mare's  poem,  The  Little  Salamander 
to  Mar  got: 


88  Jfrom  a  g>outfjern 


"  When  I  go  free, 
I  think  I'll  be 
A  night  of  stars  and  snow, 
And  the  wild  fires  of  frost  shall  light 

My  footsteps  as  I  go; 
Nobody  —  nobody  will  be  there 

With  groping  touch  or  sight, 
To  see  me  in  my  bush  of  hair 

Dance  burning  through  the  night." 

The  lizards  race  about  in  the  trees  here,  too, 
greeny-brown  creatures  whose  color  melts  into  the 
shades  of  the  bark  so  that  only  their  motion  enables 
me  to  distinguish  them  from  the  bark  itself.  They 
play  up  and  down  the  big  oak  tree  beside  the  porch, 
affording  themselves  and  me  an  endless  amount  of 
entertainment. 

The  quick  impetuosity,  the  darting  impulses 
such  as  lizards  and  some  human  beings  (notably 
the  very  young,)  show,  are  beautiful  and  pathetic 
to  me,  so  that  I  feel  misgivings  for  the  future. 
Does  the  lizard  find  that  the  world  lives  up  to  his 
young  ideals  of  it?  Does  he  hurt  his  swift,  lithe 
young  body  against  the  sharp  corners  of  life? 
I  fancy  lizards  all  die  young,  for  how  could  such 
a  being  creep  about  with  age  and  rheumatism? 

But  entertaining  as  are  all  the  other  reptiles,  I 
think  that  toads  have  given  me  more  pleasure 


$3orcl)  fceptilea  89 


this  summer  than  any  of  the  family.  There  are 
plenty  of  specimens  for  observation  here,  from  the 
thousands  of  tiny  thumb-nail  beings  to  the  bull 
frogs  in  the  lake.  One  cannot  put  his  foot  down 
without  raising  a  dust  of  toads  here,  as  lively  as 
crickets  and  as  small  as  flies.  How  could  these 
tiny  things  come  so  far  from  the  water?  I  feel 
that  there  must  be  some  method  of  toad-culture 
besides  the  tadpole  school,  for  these  wee  infants 
couldn't  travel  so  far.  There  must  be  an  enorm 
ous  mortality  among  baby  toads,  for  otherwise 
mortals  would  be  crowded  off  this  planet. 

I  have  grown  especially  fond  of  toads  this  sum 
mer.  Down  in  Texas  I  used  to  be  interested  in 
the  horned  toads,  little  creatures  as  round  and  flat 
as  doll  pancakes,  with  horny  protuberances  over 
their  bodies,  that  go  gliding  about  in  the  sand  as 
swiftly  as  lizards,  and  that  are  really  closer  akin 
to  lizards  than  to  toads.  The  children  used  to 
tie  cords  about  their  necks  and  lead  them  around 
like  pet  dogs,  which  was  unsatisfactory  to  the 
toads,  of  course,  but  seemed  to  give  amusement  to 
the  children.  Mischievous  male  college  students 
have  been  known  to  lead  them  into  class-rooms  to 
startle  the  girls,  and  eastern  tourists  buy  them  for 
curiosities.  I  saw  recently  in  a  book  of  natural 


90  Jfrom  a  gboutfjern 


history  sketches  for  children,  a  picture  claiming  to 
represent  the  horned  toad,  which  was  nothing  but  a 
lumpish,  amiable  hop-  toad  with  a  little  horn  back 
of  each  ear.  I  consider  that  persons  who  write  and 
illustrate  books  on  natural  history  should  be  ex 
pected  at  least  to  have  seen  a  picture  of  the  speci 
men  described. 

The  toad  has  never  been  appreciated,  either  for 
his  utilitarian  helpfulness  in  eating  insects,  or  for  his 
lovable  qualities  of  character.  Those  who  think 
of  toads  as  stolid,  unresponsive  creatures,  devoid 
of  sentiment,  are  mistaken.  Toads  have  loving 
hearts  and  show  a  faithfulness  of  affection  unknown 
to  many  fashionable  pets.  I  should  like  to  head  a 
movement  for  the  cultivation  of  sympathy  with 
these  batrachian  creatures. 

I  like  to  watch  the  toads  as  they  lump  lurchily 
about  in  the  flower-beds,  or  sluggishly  sleep  in 
the  damp  shadows,  or  sit  still  winking  their  near 
sighted  eyes  at  me.  But  for  long  my  interest  in 
them  was  general,  in  toads  collective,  not  in 
dividual.  For  many  evenings  I  noticed  that  two 
toads  of  about  the  same  size  came  up  on  the  front 
porch  about  dusk,  and  remained  for  a  couple  of 
hours.  I  thought  it  somewhat  strange  that  my 
visitors  should  conform  so  in  size  and  number  each 


$orcf)  Reptiles  91 


evening,  but  for  some  time  I  failed  to  grasp  the 
fact  that  they  were  the  same  toads  each  evening. 
I  had  been  studying  them,  talking  to  them,  and 
feeding  them  on  flies  I  had  swatted,  but  when  I 
awoke  to  the  knowledge  that  I  was  having  steady 
callers,  my  interest  was  enormously  increased. 

Touched  by  their  sociability,  I  became  more 
cordial  in  my  reception,  more  lavish  in  my  offerings 
of  refreshment,  and  they  in  turn  evinced  more 
plainly  their  fondness  for  my  society.  Yes,  they 
did,  too !  Since  then,  I  have  watched  them  nightly 
and  gain  a  vast  amusement  from  them.  I  never 
see  or  hear  them  come,  but  when  we  come  out  on 
the  porch  after  supper,  we  find  them  sitting  there, 
or  else,  if  supper  is  delayed,  I  may  look  down  to 
find  the  two  squatting  silently  beside  my  rocking- 
chair.  I  never  can  rock  with  any  ease  after  sun 
down,  lest  I  kill  one  of  my  friends.  They  appear 
as  silently  as  the  stars. 

I  try  various  experiments  with  them,  such  as 
turning  the  porch  light  on  suddenly,  to  make  them 
blink  their  eyes.  I  tickle  them  softly  by  drawing 
a  stalk  of  Queen  Anne's  Lace  across  their  backs, 
gently  agitating  the  flower.  The  toad  likes  this 
immensely,  and  will  turn  his  back  and  sides  round 
in  turn,  to  have  them  stroked.  Sometimes  I 


92  Jfrom  a  H>outf)ern 


scratch  their  backs  gently  with  a  stiff  little  stick, 
which  demonstration  they  likewise  enjoy.  They 
are  affectionate  beings,  and  squat  fearlessly  on  the 
hem  of  my  dress,  hop  all  about  my  chair,  and  let 
me  try  any  experiment  with  them  that  I  wish. 

I  feed  them  with  flies,  swatted  or  steam-killed 
and  sun-dried.  But  it  is  necessary  to  give  the  fly 
a  verisimilitude  of  life,  otherwise  the  toad  will  not 
take  it.  He  is  more  exacting  on  this  point  than 
the  hornets  are.  Toads  have  a  Kosher  regulation 
about  having  their  flies  fresh-killed,  and  will  ac 
cept  no  cold  storage  products,  however  attractively 
offered.  So  I  try  in  various  ways  to  make  the  fly 
seem  alive.  If  I  wave  a  fan  high  above  a  group  of 
insects  on  the  floor,  the  gentle  motion  of  the  air 
causes  the  flies  to  move  in  a  life-like  manner,  and 
the  toads  leap  lithely  upon  their  supper.  But  if 
I  fan  too  closely,  these  callers  evince  a  chilled  dis 
favor,  so  I  have  to  desist.  The  best  method,  I 
have  found,  is  to  take  a  needle  and  very  long 
thread,  leaving  a  fly  on  the  end  of  the  thread  which 
has  no  knot  in  it.  Toady  will  make  a  quick  spring 
and  capture  his  prey,  which  slips  unhindered  down 
his  throat,  and  he  feels  he  has  done  something 
worthy  of  praise  in  getting  such  a  brisk  insect. 
Sometimes  I  merely  shove  a  fly  forward  with  a 


llorcf)  Reptile*  93 


quick,  concealed  motion,  that  sends  it  toward  the 
toad,  and  lo,  it  is  gone!  I  occasionally  vary  the 
menu  by  rolling  little  balls  of  soft  bread  toward 
them,  but  flies  are  more  delicious  so  I  do  not 
waste  much  time  in  making  bread-pills. 

I  have  named  these  pets  Nip  and  Tuck.  I  can 
tell  them  apart,  though  the  household  refuses  to 
believe  it — but  I  have  noticed  that  Nip  has  an 
almost  invisible  hair  line  of  white  down  the  middle 
of  his  back,  while  Tuck  has  merely  spots. 

It  is  amusing  to  watch  one  of  these  toads  grab  a 
fly.  He  never  seems  to  discover  the  fact  that  these 
flies  he  gets  at  night  are  dead,  hence  not  requiring 
the  same  tactics  of  caution  necessary  in  the  day, 
with  living  insects.  He  creeps  up  behind  the  fly, 
watches  it  blinkingly  for  a  second  as  I  jerk  it  about 
on  its  thread  or  wave  my  fan,  then  makes  one 
quick  spring,  licks  out  a  lightning  tongue,  and  the 
fly  has  gone  to  its  last  home.  Then  he  settles 
back  with  a  hunch,  swelling  with  pride  in  his  prow 
ess,  the  soft  part  under  his  throat  throbbing  like 
the  soft  spot  in  the  top  of  a  young  baby's  head. 
Sometimes  Nip  and  Tuck  start  for  the  same  fly  at 
once,  though  usually  they  take  turns  politely. 
Nip  shows  more  enterprise,  on  the  whole,  than 
Tuck. 


94  Jfrom  a  ^>outl)crn  J)ord) 

The  other  night  Nip  acted  comically.  He  mis 
took  a  lump  of  mud  on  the  floor  for  a  beetle,  and 
circled  round  it,  waiting  for  it  to  come  alive,  but 
no  sound  nor  motion  ensued.  Then  Nip  began 
stealthily  to  stalk  toward  the  object,  gazing  fixedly 
at  it,  and  crawling  with  curious  movements.  He 
would  crawl  for  a  bit,  then  walk,  with  a  creeping 
lurch  comical  to  see,  like  a  lion  stalking  its  prey, 
in  a  laughable  contrast  between  his  size  and  the 
ambitious  gait.  Several  times  Nip  would  make  a 
quick  leap  at  the  lump,  but  would  not  attempt  to 
swallow  it,  since  he  was  evidently  doubtful  of  the 
nature  of  this  bug  that  neither  moved  nor  made 
any  noise.  Finally,  though  with  reluctance  and 
backward  glancings,  he  gave  it  up,  as  if  deciding 
that  lumps  of  mud  are  not  nutritious.  Nip  often 
stalks  his  prey,  I  have  noticed  since,  but  Tuck 
always  confines  himself  to  the  hop.  A  traveler 
from  Japan  recently  told  me  that  Japanese  toads 
never  hop,  but  always  crawl  in  this  fashion,  so 
perhaps  there  is  something  Oriental  about  Nip. 
I  recently  heard  of  a  Japanese  student's  definition 
of  a  frog,  as  * '  an  animal  that  stands  up  in  front  and 
sits  down  behind." 

I  wonder  what  is  the  relation  between  Nip  and 
Tuck — if  they  are  brothers  or  merely  friends  ?  Do 


95 


they  spend  their  whole  time  together,  or  simply 
meet  by  appointment  each  evening  at  the  nastur 
tium  bed,  for  their  call  on  me?  They  are  silent 
guests,  giving  never  a  croak  in  response  to  any 
blandishments  from  me,  but  there  are  so  many 
human  callers  that  are  oppressively  talkative,  that 
their  silence  is  grateful.  Fanny  Burney's  diary 
tells  of  a  woman  about  the  court  who  had  pet 
toads  whom  she  taught  to  croak  in  different  keys 
in  response  to  her  questions.  I  wish  I  knew  her 
system. 

The  Doctor  who  comes  almost  as  regularly  as 
the  toads,  but  to  see  Lucia,  not  me,  has  tried  to  per 
suade  me  to  let  him  try  tricks  with  my  pets,  after 
the  fashion  of  that  mentioned  in  Mark  Twain's 
Jumping  Frog  of  Calaveras  County,  but  I  indig 
nantly  refuse.  I  wonder,  however,  if,  as  the  Pro 
fessor  suggests,  I  am  pauperizing  these  young  toads 
by  removing  from  them  the  natural  incentive  of 
hunger  to  provide  their  own  living.  When  I  ask 
Nip  and  Tuck  if  this  is  true,  they  are  noncom 
mittal,  and  since  they  do  not  accuse  me,  I  shall 
continue  to  feed  them. 

The  tree  toads  come  out  at  dusk,  too,  scarcely 
visible  in  their  coats  of  green  and  brown,  but  they 
are  not  silent,  for  their  little  whistling  croaks  may 


96  Jfrom  a  £>outi)ern 


be  heard  every  evening,  and  in  the  daytime  when 
there's  rain.  The  darkey  says  : 

"  De  tree  toad,  he  ain'  got  but  one  song, 

'  Hit  ain'  gwine  rain  no  mo'  ; 
Hit  ain'  gwine  rain,  hit  ain'  gwine  snow, 
Hit  ain'  gwine  to  rain,  no  mo-o-o!" 

You  can  tell  that  a  tree  toad  is  thinking  about 
atmospheric  conditions,  but  of  what  is  an  ordi 
nary  toad  thinking,  when  he  looks  at  you  so 
fixedly  with  his  eyes  blinking  so  fast?  I'd 
give  more  than  a  penny  for  Nip's  thoughts  at 
times. 

I  caught  a  funny  little  frog  in  my  boat  the  other 
day,  a  tiny  fellow  with  only  one  eye,  and  not  even 
a  socket  on  the  other  side.  He  was  hopping  about 
in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  when  I  entered;  I  let 
him  jump  up  on  one  of  the  oars  and  I  looked  at  him 
closely.  He  didn't  seem  afraid  of  me,  but  winked 
at  me  merrily  with  his  one  eye.  I  put  him  in  the 
water  near  the  boat,  but  when  I  held  out  the  oar  to 
him,  he  got  on  it  again,  and  settled  himself  down 
for  a  sociable  time.  I  kept  him  in  the  boat  with 
me  till  I  had  finished  my  row,  then  left  him  in  the 
water  by  the  edge  of  the  lake,  as  I  thought  he 
might  be  lonely  in  the  boat  all  night.  He  swam 


97 


briskly  off  as  I  stood  watching  him,  as  nice  a  little 
creature  as  ever  I  saw! 

I  have  never  made  as  close  acquaintance  with 
the  bullfrogs  in  the  lake  as  with  the  hop-toads. 
The  first  night  I  was  here,  I  thought  that  autos 
were  passing  during  all  the  hours,  and  in  the  morn 
ing  I  inquired  the  reason  for  such  excessive  travel, 
to  be  derisively  told  that  my  auto  horns  were  the 
honk-honks  of  the  bullfrogs  in  the  lake.  Boys 
come  to  the  water  at  night  with  lanterns  to  catch 
the  frogs,  sometimes  bringing  a  singer  with  a  deep 
basso  who  strikes  a  low  note,  answered  by  a  watery 
boom.  The  light  is  flashed  on  the  spot  from  which 
the  sound  comes,  and  the  frog  "croaks"  in  another 
sense,  to  furnish  legs  for  a  feast  on  the  bank. 

Tish  sings  several  "reels"  concerning  the  toad, 
which  are  considered  to  be  ancient  colored  folk 
lore.  I  induced  her  to  repeat  the  following  for  me 
the  other  day. 

"  I  was  walkin'  'long  de  new-cut  road, 
An'  I  met  de  tarrepin  an'  de  toad. 
Every  time  de  toad  would  spring, 
De  tarrepin  cut  de  pigeon-wing. 

CHORUS  : 

Pickin'  on  de  bottle,  pickin'  on  de  bottle! 
Is  she  comin'  to  town? 


98  Jftom  a  g>outf)ern 


My  ol'  Mistis  promised  me 
When  she  died  she'd  set  me  free. 
But  she  libed  so  long  an*  died  so  po' 
She  left  oV  Sambo  pullin'  on  de  hoe. 

CHORUS  : 

Pickin'  on  de  bottle,  pickin'  on  de  bottle! 
Is  she  comin'  to  town?" 

I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  what  that  chorus 
means  nor  has  Tish,  because  the  ancient  folk-songs 
handed  down  merely  orally  have  their  meaning 
and  sound  changed  sometimes  so  that  it  is  impos 
sible  to  reconstruct  the  original  version. 

A  different  version  of  the  first  stanza  came  to  me 
from  Aunt  Peggy,  the  chorus  in  this  case  being  the 
refrain  of  another  old  song,  after  the  fashion  of 
darkey  folk-songs  which  often  are  what  the  negroes 
cair'amixtry." 

"  As  I  come  'long  de  new-cut  road 
I  met  Mr.  Tarrepin  an'  Mr.  Toad. 
De  Toad  began  to  pat  an'  sing, 
While  Tarrepin  cut  de  pigeon-wing. 

CHORUS  : 

Pretty  Betty  Martin,  tiptoe,  tiptoe, 
Pretty  Betty  Martin,*  tiptoe  fine!  " 

Tish  was  sweeping  the  porch  the  other  morning 
to  the  tune  of  a  ballad  which  I  surreptitiously 


99 


took  down,  which  she  said  was  called  Who  Stole 
the  Lock? 

"  My  ol'  friend  was  as  cute  as  a  mouse; 
He  stole  down  to  de  chicken-house. 
He  took  all  de  chickens  dat  were  in  sight, 
Den  says  to  me,  'My  friend,  good-night!' 

CHORUS  : 

Well,  who  stole  de  lock?    I  don't  know. 
Who  stole  de  lock  f um  de  hen-house  do '  ? 
I'll  find  out  befo'  I  go 
Who  stole  de  lock  fum  de  hen-house  do'. 

Down  in  de  hen-house  on  my  knees, 
I  thought  I  heerd  a  chicken  sneeze. 
'Twas  de  ol'  rooster  sayin'  his  prayers, 
Singing  a  hymn  to  de  hens  upstairs. 

CHORUS: 

As  I  went  'cross  de  forty-acre  fiel', 

A  rattlesnake  bit  me  on  de  heel. 

I  turned  right  roun'  for  to  do  my  best, 

An'  my  left  foot  stuck  in  a  hornet's  nest!  " 

CHORUS  : 

« 
The  negro  concerns  himself  more  with  the  un- 

poetic  creatures  of  nature  than  does  the  white  man, 
while  the  conventional  concepts  of  beauty,  such 
as  the  nightingales,  violets,  and  so  forth  are  cele- 


ioo  Jfrom  a  ^outfjern 


brated  by  the  whites  more  often.  In  this  respect 
the  colored  mind  is  more  ingenious  and  gifted  with 
appreciation  and  imagination,  less  confined  to 
unoriginal  ideas.  It  takes  more  vividness  of 
thought  to  think  of  a  toad  or  a  serpent  as  poetic 
material,  than  to  string  together  rhymes  about  a 
mocking  bird,  as  the  hornet  is  a  more  novel  char 
acter  in  lyrics  than  the  butterfly.  There  is  a 
chummy  relationship  between  the  darkey  and  his 
subjects  for  rhyme  that  would  make  the  fortune  of 
any  commercial-minded  poet  who  could  develop  it. 
But  he  can't.  I  think  perhaps  the  reason  for  this 
difference  is  that  the  negro  is  essentially  a  child 
who  never  grows  up,  whose  ideas  are  never  stand 
ardized  by  social  or  literary  rule,  and  who  sings 
because  he's  really  fond  of  what  he  likes,  instead 
of  merely  rhyming  about  ideas  and  things  that 
precedent  has  accepted.  What  great  poetry  we 
should  have  if  only  children  and  darkeys  knew 
grammar  and  words  enough  to  express  their 
emotions  ! 

Postscript. 

Last  night  a  tragedy  happened!  I  was  out  on 
the  porch  as  usual  amusing  myself  with  Nip  and 
Tuck,  while  Lucia  and  the  Doctor  were  sitting 


101 


near,  watching  us.  An  enormous  black  beetle, 
with  hard  black  eyes  and  terrifying  pincers,  came 
scuttling  toward  us,  whereat  Lucia  drew  her  skirts 
about  her  ankles  with  a  little  "  Ugh!"  of  alarm,  as 
he  scudded  past  her,  and  the  Doctor  said,  "Let's 
give  it  to  Nip  or  Tuck. " 

"Oh,  no,  it's  too  large!"  I  protested. 

"Then  I'll  cut  it  up!"  he  retorted. 

He  picked  up  a  sharp  stick  from  the  steps  and 
with  it  decapitated  the  beetle,  which  lay  on  its 
back,  its  legs  wildly  waving  in  air,  and  its  nippers 
snapping  viciously.  Before  I  could  realize  what 
was  being  done,  the  Doctor  had  offered  that  head 
to  Nip,  who  swallowed  it  with  one  leaping  gulp, 
or  at  least,  he  got  it  partly  down.  There  it  stuck 
in  his  throat,  too  big  for  the  small  throat,  the 
nippers  horribly  biting  and  clawing! 

I  tried  to  snatch  the  thing  out  of  poor  little 
Nip's  mouth,  but  he  choked  it  down  before  I  could 
get  hold  of  it. 

My  poor  little  toad  flattened  out,  and  heaved  and 
lurched  about  in  agony,  for  those  grinding  beaks 
were  evidently  gripping  his  insides.  His  body 
was  convulsed.  He  would  lie  flat  on  the  floor  for 
one  instant,  and  then  lurch  unsteadily  about,  with 
heavings  and  writhings  of  his  muscles,  those  two 


102  Jftom  a  &outf)ern 


longest  feelers  still  sticking  unfeelingly  out  of  the 
corners  of  his  mouth. 

I  watched  him  with  tears  running  down  my 
cheeks.  I  couldn't  help  it,  to  think  that  one  of 
us  whom  he  had  so  trusted  to  give  him  the  right 
food,  had  thus  wronged  him  ! 

I  turned  in  bitter  reproach  upon  the  one  re 
sponsible  for  this.  "I  think  if  I  were  a  doctor  I'd 
know  how  to  do  something  in  a  case  like  this!" 
I  cried  accusingly. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  cure  toads;  I  only  know 
how  to  kill  them  in  the  laboratory  !  I  'm  sorry,  '  '  he 
mumbled,  yet  with  a  half-concealed  grin.  I  never 
had  noticed  before  that  the  Doctor  has  a  cruel 
mouth,  something  like  that  of  a  catfish. 

Presently  Nip  crawled  off  the  porch,  tumbling 
helplessly  down  the  steps,  one  at  a  time,  and  crept 
into  the  violet  bed.  I  followed  him  yearningly  till 
he  was  lost  in  the  shadows,  feeling  miserable  be 
cause  there  was  nothing  I  could  do.  He  went  off  to 
die  alone,  and  will  never  understand  that  I  would 
have  saved  him  from  this  if  I  could,  —  but  at  least 
I'm  thankful  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  this.  The 
Doctor  seemed  repentant,  but  I  told  him  coldly 
that  his  remorse  didn't  help  Nip. 

I  shall  miss  that  little  toad  like  a  real,  human 


103 


friend.  I  wonder  if  lonesome  Tuck  will  come  back 
alone  now.  Nip  is  tuck  and  Tuck  is  left,  as  the 
Professor  said  when  he  was  told  of  the  occurrence. 
Well,  it  isn't  wise,  I  dare  say,  to  set  your  affections 
too  much  on  any  object,  lest  disappointment  come. 
But  he  was  such  a  loving  little  thing.  "Hath  a 
toad  affection  ? ' '  Y'es,  undoubtedly !  And  now  he 
is  gone !  It's  a  lonesome  world ! 

Second  Postscript.     Several  nights  later. 

Tuck  comes  back  alone  each  night  now,  and 
hops  about  after  me  as  if  asking  where  his  comrade 
has  gone.  I  feed  him  as  usual  and  try  to  make  him 
happy,  but  with  a  mournful  heart.  I  never  did 
care  as  much  for  Tuck  as  for  Nip,  though  I  hope 
he  never  knew  the  difference. 


IV 

BIRD   STUDY   FROM   A   COUNTRY  PORCH 

I'D  rather  be  a  bird  than  anything  else,  if  I 
couldn't  be  a  human.  A  June  bug,  with  its  joy 
ous  irresponsibility,  offers  attractions,  if  children 
wouldn't  swing  me  by  a  string;  an  angleworm  en 
joys  considerable  privacy,  yet  has  little  outlook  on 
the  world ;  a  field-mouse  is  beautiful,  but  the  winter 
must  be  cold  for  him,  with  no  hot- water  pipes  in 
the  ground ;  and  so  few  people  appreciate  the  loving 
nature  of  a  toad  that  I  might  feel  neglected.  I'd 
like  a  lizard's  energy  and  speed,  and  a  chameleon's 
adaptability  to  surroundings — but  on  the  whole, 
I'd  rather  be  a  bird. 

I  love  to  watch  the  birds  from  my  couch  on  the 
porch.  I  can  study  them  close  at  hand,  for  they 
are  rather  fearless — or  at  a  distance,  with  my  good 
binoculars.  When  I  first  wake  up  on  my  slumber 
porch,  the  bird?  are  already  aroused,  telling  each 
other  how  bright  the  dawn  is,  and  excitedly  saying 
that  Mose  is  plowing  for  a  new  crop  of  corn,  and 

104 


&>tubp  from  a  Country  fiord)       105 


that  there  are  luscious  worms  to  be  had  for  the 
picking  up.  I  raise  myself  on  my  elbow,  to  see  if 
my  little  brook  is  still  there,  and  sink  back  relieved 
to  find  that  it  is.  I  have  a  fear  that  someone 
might  spirit  it  away  while  I  sleep,  —  since  some 
things  are  too  lovely  to  last.  It  says  good  morning 
to  me  very  nicely  from  its  little  pebbly  bed,  and  it 
has  had  a  good  sleep  and  happy  dreams,  thank  you  ! 

The  family  of  wrens  that  have  their  nest  in  the 
bird  house  just  over  my  couch  are  thoroughly  and 
noisily  astir  long  before  I  get  down.  There  are 
three  little  wrens,  all  mouth  and  eyes,  that  cheep 
for  breakfast  which  Mother  and  Father  Wren  can 
not  provide  fast  enough.  The  parents  fly  back 
and  forth  with  incessant  worms,  exhaustless  bugs. 
As  papa  or  mamma  perches  on  the  bird  porch  at 
the  front  of  the  house,  there  are  agitated  flutter- 
ings  of  unfeathered  wings  and  chirping  cries  of 
hunger  and  delight.  How  good  is  a  worm  with  the 
morning  dew  on  him!  How  delicious  a  bug  that 
scrambles  down  your  throat  ! 

Those  wrens  are  like  human  fathers  and  mothers 
in  that  they  spend  practically  their  whole  time  and 
energy  supplying  the  demands  of  their  vociferous 
offspring,  getting  nothing  out  of  existence  for 
themselves  but  a  roof  over  their  heads  and  the  less 


io6  Jfrom  a  ^outturn  JDorctj 

choice  morsels  at  the  table.  Yet  they  seem  con 
tented, — strange  are  wrens! 

The  wrens  from  the  box  on  the  other  side  of  the 
porch  are  teaching  their  young  to  fly.  I  arrived 
on  the  scene  the  other  morning  just  at  the  right 
moment  to  see  the  little  ones  flutter  in  scared  ven 
ture  to  the  nearest  tree,  encouraged  by  older  chirps. 
What  rapturous  moment  of  hazard,  what  palpita 
tions  of  fearful  bliss !  One  would  never  have  sup 
posed,  merely  from  looking  through  a  door  the 
size  of  a  quarter,  or  from  rocking  back  and  forth 
on  the  narrow  porch  itself,  that  this  was  such  a 
large  world.  There  are  so  many  green  branches 
that  stretch  invitingly,  yet  they  are  dizzily  far  away 
for  wings  that  have  not  yet  learned  coordination. 

Father  Wren  holds  a  worm  in  his  mouth  and  flies 
ahead  of  the  youngster,  flies  till  the  small  one 
cheeps  with  fatigue  in  following  him,  and  then 
gives  him  the  worm,  while  Mother  flutters  anxious 
ly  about  to  lend  encouragement  and  sympathy. 
She  thinks  that  Father  is  a  bit  exacting  with  such 
young  birds,  though  of  course  he  means  well. 
Whenever  the  baby  stops,  the  mother  quivers 
down  beside  it,  even  though  Father  flies  ahead  with 
a  masculine  imperative  flutter  of  the  wings  as  if 
to  say,  "Hurry  up  there,  or  this  worm  will  get 


from  a  Countrp  $ardj       107 


away!"  John  Burroughs  says  that  birds  don't 
teach  their  young  to  fly,  but  what  were  those 
wrens  doing?  They  may  have  been  merely  giving 
an  aviation  exhibition.  It  is  fascinating  to  watch 
each  nervous  flutter,  each  uncertain  gyration,  as 
the  young  bird  attains  the  limb  aspired  to. 

Still  another  pair  of  wrens  from  the  box  over 
the  porte-cochere,  having  successfully  reared  a 
family,  fed  them,  and  given  them  instruction  in 
ground  and  fancy  flying,  have  dismissed  the 
youngsters  from  their  minds  and  started  in  to  make 
another  nest.  This  time  they  have  moved  into  the 
box  over  the  library  window,  like  urbanites  feeling 
the  urge  to  move  at  intervals,  even  though  their 
new  home  is  no  more  commodious,  has  no  wider 
outlook  than  the  old.  This  is  the  selfish  couple 
that  in  the  spring,  having  chosen  their  house,  filled 
the  adjoining  one  with  sticks  and  moss,  to  prevent 
any  rival  occupancy. 

Madam  Wren  had  her  breakfast  in  bed  each 
morning  before  the  babies  made  their  arrival,  her 
devoted  husband  serving  it  to  her  himself.  Her 
fare  was  varied  and  abundant,  I  noticed,  and  I 
can  testify  that  he  was  a  good  provider. 

Perhaps  I  am  interfering  with  nature's  economic 
scheme  when  I  give  flies  to  the  birds.  But  it  is 


io8  Jfrom  a  ^outturn  $ordi 

such  fun  to  watch  the  birds  eat,  that  each  morning 
I  spread  my  catch  out  on  the  broad  stone  ledge  by 
the  steps,  and  wait  to  see  who  comes  to  partake 
of  my  hospitality.  The  birds  have  learned  that 
food  will  be  ready  for  them,  and  so  my  porch 
furnishes  continuous  entertainment.  The  callers 
do  not  understand  this  clock-like  regularity  of  flies 
that  courteously  lie  down  and  die,  and  let  them 
selves  be  swallowed  without  resistance,  but  they 
approve  of  it. 

The  birds  come  flying  onto  the  porch,  then  walk 
across  the  ledge  with  mincing,  finical  steps,  looking 
alertly  about  to  see  if  I  have  any  gun  or  "nigger- 
shooter"  with  me  to  menace  them.  Then  they 
pick  up  the  flies  daintily,  and  are  gone.  The  flies 
look  like  poor  imitations  of  life,  for  they  have  been 
swatted  out  of  all  recognition,  or  else  steam-killed 
in  a  trap,  then  dried  in  the  sun,  so  they  are  limp, 
flattened  objects,  but  the  birds  eat  them  with 
appetite,  as  do  the  lizards  and  the  toads.  I  am 
always  careful  to  keep  the  porch  swept  clean  of  the 
formaldehy ded  victims,  for  they  might  poison  birds 
or  toads  or  hornets,  so  they  are  meticulously  swept 
up  in  the  dust-pan  and  burned. 

Lucia  and  the  Professor  sometimes  help  me 
spread  my  board,  but  the  Doctor  will  have  none  of 


from  a  Countrp  J3ordj       109 


it,  contending  that  I  am  making  gardens  too  safe 
for  bugs  and  destroying  the  self-respecting  inde 
pendence  of  the  birds.  The  Professor  merely 
glances  at  him  with  a  rather  cold  look  in  his  blue 
eyes  at  such  remark,  and  elaborately  assists  me  to 
set  the  table.  Anyhow,  I  don't  think  I  should  like 
to  trust  the  Doctor  with  feeding  any  of  my  pets, 
after  his  disastrous  experiment  with  Nip.  Poor 
little  Nip  !  —  how  I  do  miss  that  toad  ! 

I  wish  I  could  offer  some  refreshment  for  the 
humming  birds,  but  I  don't  know  how  to  manage  it, 
and  anyhow,  they  seem  pretty  competent  to  look 
out  for  themselves.  There  is  a  thick  growth  of 
scarlet  sage  against  the  edge  of  the  porch,  in  front 
of  my  couch,  and  all  day  long  the  humming  birds 
come  and  go,  tasting  the  honey.  A  humming  bird 
is  grace  incarnate,  with  its  unimaginable  swiftness 
and  ease  of  motion.  It  poises  on  whirring  wings, 
dipping  its  sharp  beak  into  the  cup  of  the  flower, 
and  making  a  vibrant  humming  like  the  noise  of  an 
airplane  far,  far  off  in  the  blue.  It  utters  sharp 
little  needle-like  cries,  so  low  that  one  has  to  listen 
well  to  hear  them,  but  quite  audible  if  one  is  still. 
Sometimes  there  are  two  or  three  of  them  here  at 
once  about  the  bed,  with  their  translucent  bodies 
as  lovely  as  light. 


no  Jfrom  a  &outf)ern 


The  other  day  a  young  boy  came  with  a  box 
which  he  said  had  a  present  for  me  in  it.  I  heard 
a  faint  rustle  inside,  and  asked,  '  '  What  is  it  ?  "  He 
refused  to  tell  me,  so  I  opened  the  box  stealthily  to 
see  what  living  creature  was  inside  —  to  find  a  baby 
humming  bird  the  boy  had  caught  and  saved  for  me. 

I  almost  wept  as  I  saw  the  wee,  frightened 
thing,  so  shaken  and  forlorn,  worn  out  with  beat 
ing  its  baby  wings  against  the  prison  bars,  lying 
faint  and  unable  to  fly.  I  took  it  out  softly  and 
laid  it  on  a  broad  leaf  in  some  shrubbery  near  by, 
out  of  the  way  of  cats,  and  left  it.  After  some 
time,  when  I  looked  again,  it  was  not  there,  so  I 
hope  it  found  its  mother  and  its  nest  again,  but  I 
feel  sorry  when  I  think  of  that  wild  creature  so 
cowed  and  exhausted.  It  never  can  again  be  the 
joyous  thing  it  was  before,  with  such  swift,  tumul 
tuous  wings  of  light. 

The  humming  birds  come  out  at  night  to  suck 
the  sweets  from  the  flowers.  Perhaps  the  evening's 
damps  bring  out  a  new  nectar,  or  perhaps  dangers 
are  less  menacing  than  in  the  day.  One  flew  across 
me  the  other  night  as  I  lay  on  my  couch,  almost 
brushing  my  cheek  with  its  wings,  as  it  went  to  the 
star-jasmine  vine  on  the  wall.  It  was  dark,  on  a 
cloudy  night,  after  rain  had  fallen. 


from  a  Country  <porcfj 


There's  a  humming  bird's  nest  in  a  tree  near  by, 
a  delicate,  almost  invisible  thing  but  clear  enough 
when  looked  at  through  the  field  glasses.  I  found 
it  by  accident  when  I  was  gazing  at  the  tree.  It  is 
high  up,  so  there's  no  way  for  me  to  examine  it 
closely.  It  looks  like  a  small  lump  on  the  branch, 
and  only  by  seeing  the  bird  go  into  it  did  I  discover 
what  it  was. 

The  blackbirds  are  decorative  creatures  as  they 
fly  and  run  over  the  lawn.  They  run  more  than 
any  bird  that  I  know  and  can  race  at  Marathon 
speed  with  dancing  movements.  They  are  attrac 
tive  to  look  upon,  with  their  glossy,  inkish  plum 
age  and  their  bright,  glancing  heads,  but  they 
have  unamiable  dispositions.  They  quarrel  as 
they  dance  insultingly  around  each  other,  uttering 
raucous  cries,  and  flapping  their  wings  in  vitupera 
tive  gestures.  They  usually  come  by  twos,  but  one 
morning  lately  there  were  seven  on  the  lawn  at  once, 
the  older  ones  flying  about,  back  and  forth  across 
the  open  space,  and  calling  to  the  young  ones  with 
tutorial  accents. 

The  jay  birds  are  even  more  ill-natured  than 
the  blackbirds,  for  they  have  a  downright  vicious 
temper,  and  can  teach  swear  words  to  a  sailor's 


Jfrom  a 


parrot.  The  darkeys  say  that  the  jay  birds  all 
belong  to  the  devil  and  spend  every  Friday  in 
torment,  carrying  sand  for  their  master,  which  is 
why  you  never  see  a  jay  bird  on  Friday.  I  don't 
make  affidavit  that  this  is  true  —  and  I'm  eternally 
intending  to  find  out  about  it,  by  watching  for 
them  on  the  next  Friday,  but  something  always 
comes  up  to  prevent. 

I  never  have  seen  more  pronounced  exhibition 
of  tantrums  than  that  shown  by  two  blue  jays  the 
other  day,  each  holding  one  end  of  a  long  angle 
worm  and  contending  for  possession  of  the  whole, 
with  no  consideration  at  all  for  the  sensations  of 
the  worm.  They  would  momentarily  drop  their 
victim,  to  fly  at  each  other  with  angry,  extended 
wings,  shrieking  accusations.  Poor  worm!  The 
struggle  ended  by  breaking  him  in  two,  at  which 
the  birds  gulped,  each  his  half,  and  flew  away 
sulkily. 

There  was  a  blue  jay  the  other  afternoon  that 
spied  a  beetle  and  couldn't  decide  whether  it  was 
safe  to  attack  it  or  not.  His  indecision  on  the  sub 
ject  reminded  me  of  a  woman's  mental  attitude  of 
variableness.  The  inability  of  the  average  home- 
keeping  woman,  she  of  the  sheltered  swirl  of 
domesticity  in  which  married  women  live,  to  make 


Jiirb  g>tubp  from  a  Country  $orcf)       113 

a  decision  and  stick  to  it,  is  at  once  ludicrous  and 
pathetic.  She  circles  round  a  decision,  she  sniffs 
at  it,  then  darts  off  alarmed.  At  once  wavering 
and  obstinate,  she  is  unable  to  make  up  her  mind 
alone,  and  she  is  suspicious  of  any  outside  efforts 
to  assist  her  toward  a  decision. 

I  saw  an  interesting  exhibition  of  bird  psychol 
ogy  the  other  day.  I  was  watching  a  mother  wren 
and  her  baby  on  the  lawn,  the  infant  fluttering 
about  on  the  grass  in  efforts  to  fly.  Just  then  the 
cat  came  round  the  corner  and  sprang  at  the  baby 
bird.  I  sprang  an  instant  later,  but  I  was  not 
needed,  for  that  mother  flew  in  pussy's  face, 
flapping  her  wings  and  screaming  in  such  fury  that 
the  cat  quickly  slunk  back  out  of  sight.  It  was 
like  seeing  a  perambulator  turn  into  an  army  tank 
in  action,  or  hearing  a  lily  roar  like  a  lion. 

I  was  watching  a  couple  of  birds  escaped  from 
the  nest  and  making  adventurous  efforts  at  flying, 
when  Aunt  Peggy,  who  had  stopped  by  the  porch 
to  chat  with  me,  looked  at  them  with  an  indulgent 
laugh.  "  Dey's  jes'  lack  deshere  young  folks  in  de 
house.  Dey's  so  proud  o'  deyselves  'case  dey  is 
grown  up.  Dey  ain'  neber  been  grown-up  befo'. " 

The  song  sparrows,  or  grass  sparrows,  as  the 
darkeys  call  them,  because  they  build  their  nests 


Jfrom  a 


near  the  ground,  are  here  in  numbers,  daintily 
small  birds  that  flit  over  the  grass  and  in  the 
shrubbery.  They  have  a  soft,  sweet  song  of  a 
plaintive  minor  strain  that  is  beautiful.  I  have 
often  found  their  nests  in  the  blackberry  vines  and 
once  in  the  fork  of  a  peach  tree  in  the  orchard,  not 
three  feet  from  the  ground,  and  in  full  view  of  cats, 
snakes,  and  other  foes.  But  the  young  birds  were 
reared  in  safety,  and  made  their  entry  into  the 
world  unharmed.  I  took  the  nest  away  after 
they  were  gone,  because  they  would  not  use  it  any 
more,  and  kept  the  cunningly  contrived  house  of 
grass  and  horsehair. 

A  baby  song  sparrow  was  in  a  tree  near  my  porch, 
just  learning  to  fly  this  morning.  I  kept  hearing 
a  wee  chirping  that  I  couldn't  locate,  though  I 
was  sure  it  came  from  that  one  tree.  I  walked 
round  and  round  the  tree,  peering  up  into  the 
branches,  but  the  small  thing  kept  perfectly  mo 
tionless,  only  uttering  that  woeful  chirp.  Pres 
ently  his  mother  heard  him  and  came  darting  to 
where  he  sat,  so  that  I  could  see  him  then  as  he 
fluttered  his  pin-feather  wings  in  relief.  Encour 
aged  by  her  presence,  he  essayed  a  non-stop 
flight,  and  swept  wobblingly  across  the  open  space 
to  another  tree,  where  he  alighted  with  gasping 


J£>tubp  from  a  Country  $orcf)        115 


chirps  of  joy,  the  mother  twittering  about  him, 
praising  him  for  his  courage  and  skill. 

The  English  sparrows,  noisy,  impertinent  little 
creatures  like  spoiled  children  that  you  cannot  yet 
dislike,  annoy  their  more  refined  cousins  in  various 
ways.  Once  a  little  girl  was  with  me  on  the  porch, 
watching  a  couple  of  young  sparrows  on  the  walk, 
and  laughing  at  their  antics.  Finally  she  re 
marked,  "Those  sparrows  are  cunning  little  cusses, 
ain't  they?" 

The  mocking  bird  furnishes  more  entertainment 
than  any  other  of  the  feathered  friends  about  here. 
He  is  the  most  versatile  and  temperamental  of  all 
birds,  and  is  on  his  job  more  steadily  than  any 
other,  since  he  doesn't  even  take  Friday  off  like  the 
jay  bird,  and  he  has  a  night  shift  as  well  as  one 
for  the  day.  The  mocking  bird  will  furnish  more 
music  to  the  twenty-four  hours  than  any  other  bird 
that  ever  flew,  if  he  has  his  freedom  and  is  feeling 
good.  He'll  even  sing  if  you  put  him  in  a  cage, 
but  less  happily,  and  his  eyes  may  grow  dull  and 
his  song  be  stilled  in  prison.  A  mocking  bird  in  a 
cage  is  sadder  to  contemplate  than  Napoleon  at 
St.  Helena. 

The  extent  and  variety  of  the  mocker's  reper- 


n6  Jfrom  a 


toire  are  sufficient  to  make  a  victrola  hang  its  horn 
in  shame.  The  skylark's  much  advertised  un 
premeditated  art  is  weak  compared  with  his  rap 
tures,  and  the  nightingale,  who  sings  only  at  night 
and  stops  even  that  by  the  middle  of  June,  is 
fairly  bested  in  his  own  field  by  this  all-day 
performer. 

Besides  having  an  inimitable  music  of  its  own, 
this  bird  can  reproduce  the  song  of  any  rival.  He 
can  mimic  almost  any  sound  in  nature  or  in  art, 
and  make  it  seem  more  like  itself  than  the  original. 
The  indignant  rumblings  of  a  setting  hen,  the 
peep-peep  of  young  turkeys  lost  in  the  tall  grass, 
the  profane  vituperations  of  the  blackbirds,  the 
whistle  of  the  small  boy  summoning  his  playmate, 
together  with  an  infinity  of  other  sounds  are  given 
back  with  verisimilitude  by  this  amazing  bird. 

He  is  not  only  mime  but  ventriloquist  as  well. 
From  the  top  of  a  tall  tree  he  will  project  the 
cheep-cheep  of  a  lost  chick,  causing  the  distracted 
parent  hen  to  race  in  circles  round  the  trunk. 
This  joke  never  seems  to  lose  its  zest  for  him,  since 
it  never  occurs  to  the  hen  to  call  the  roll  of  her 
brood  and  find  out  if  any  are  missing.  Again 
he  will  give  the  cluck-cluck  that  promises  a  nice, 
squirmy  worm,  whereon  the  chicks  come  flying  in 


g>tufc|>  from  a  Country  $orcf)       117 


with  pin-feather  wings  all  spread  in  hungry  haste. 
As  they  gather  round  the  spot  where  mother  ought 
to  be,  that  outrageous  joker  will  sound  the  hawk's 
very  ya-a-a-!  in  their  midst  and  send  them  ter 
ror-stricken  to  cover.  It  usually  takes  the  hys 
terical  hen  half  an  hour  to  recollect  her  brood, 
and  the  earth  never  seems  the  same  to  them 
again. 

The  other  morning  I  heard  a  terrible  stirabout 
in  the  garden  and  went  to  investigate.  I  found  a 
mocking  bird  and  blue  jay  on  the  wall,  shrieking 
damnatory  adjectives  at  each  other  and  waving 
contemptuous  wings.  The  jay  had  the  grace  to 
fly  away  at  the  approach  of  a  lady,  but  that  un 
blushing  mocker  strutted  up  and  down  as  if  he  had 
vanquished  his  adversary. 

But  he  does  worse  things  than  quarrel  with  a 
blue  jay.  A  couple  of  redbirds  who  have  leased 
the  top  flat  in  a  poplar  tree  near  the  porch  are  the 
objects  of  unneighborly  annoyance  on  the  part  of 
the  mocker.  When  the  young  husband  is  away, 
his  wife  perches  herself  on  the  edge  of  her  nest 
and  cries  in  tones  of  petulant  pathos,  "Oh,  Jim! 
Oh,  Jim!  Oh,  Ji-i-im!  Come!  Come!  Come! 
Swee-et!  Swe-e-t!  Swe-e-et!"  Fancy  if  you  can 
her  feelings  when  from  the  oak  trees  comes  an 


n8  Jfrom  a 


exact  mimicry  of  her  wifely  appeal.  As  soon  as 
the  mocking  bird  attracts  her  attention,  the  un 
mannerly  wretch  fairly  dances  on  the  bough  and 
burbles  in  glee. 

This  bird  has  common  sense  as  well  as  genius  — 
uncommon  combination!  I  used  to  think  him 
foolhardy  to  flaunt  himself  in  the  face  of  small 
boys  with  "nigger-  shooters"  as  he  does,  not  to 
speak  of  target  rifles,  but  much  sitting  on  tele 
phone  and  telegraph  wires  has  given  him  outside 
information  concerning  laws  to  protect  song 
birds. 

A  mocking  bird  used  to  live  on  our  place  in  Texas, 
that  would  imitate  the  postman's  whistle  and 
bring  me  out  in  haste  each  morning  to  get  the  mail. 
As  I  would  stand  wondering  at  the  empty  street, 
that  bird  would  swoop  down  in  front  of  me  and 
chortle,  "Oho!  Fooled  you  again,  didn't  I? 
Silly!" 

As  Mose  was  spading  up  the  flower  bed  around 
the  corner  of  the  porch  this  morning,  I  heard  him 
talking  to  the  mocking  bird  that  sat  balancing 
himself  on  a  spray  of  rose  vine  near  his  nest,  and 
mimicking  every  note  that  came  from  Mose's 
whistling  throat.  Finally  Mose  stopped  whistling 
to  extemporize  to  the  bird. 


ibtubp  from  a  Country  ^porcf)       119 


Marse  mocking  bird,  you  sho'  am  prissy, 

Mockin'  me  dat  way! 
Huccome  you  gwine  be  so  sassy? 

Ain'  you  skeered,  I  say? 
Wid  one  finger  I  could  mash  ye 

An'  yo'  song  away. 

Mighty  proud  you  look,  a-prancin' 

Kinder  sorter  sly; 
What  dat  tu  'key-trot  you  dancin'? 

Hopping  'bout  so  high? 
Sho'  kin  see  de  mischief  glancin' 

Ez  you  cock  yo'  eye. 

Listen  now,  you's  lack  de  blue  jay, 

Scoldin'  des  as  mad, 
Yaa-a-a!  Yaa-a-a!  What's  dat  you  say? 

Hit  sound  powerful  bad. 
Has  you  been  to  torment  Friday 

Lack  dey  says  you  had? 

Pot-rack!  Pot-rack!  now  you's  mocking 

Dat  ol'  guinea  hen. 
Now  you's  lack  a  chicken  squawkin',  — 

Say,  do  dat  agin! 
Hi,  dar,  puppies,  stop  yo'  talkin'  — 

Listen  ef  you  kin! 

You  am  lack  a  whole  pufformance 

Better'n  minstrel  show, 
Combination  song  an'  coon  dance, 

Eestest  thing  I  know. 
Leavin',  honey?     Dis  our  las'  chance? 

Does  you  hab  to  go? 


120  Jfrom  a  gxwtfjern 


The  birds  about  the  place  are  fond  of  the  bird 
bath  which  stands  in  a  sunny  place  beside  the 
nasturtium  bed.  Some  one  or  other  is  almost 
always  there,  ruffling  his  feathers  fastidiously, 
tasting  the  water  to  see  if  it  is  of  the  proper  tem 
perature,  dipping  his  bill  into  the  basin,  and  tilting 
his  head  back  luxuriously  to  let  the  water  run 
down  his  throat.  If  we  human  beings  had  to  drink 
in  the  manner  required  of  a  bird,  we  should  find  it 
inconvenient  and  be  extremely  awkward  about  it, 
but  the  birds  don't  seem  to  mind  in  the  least. 
When  a  bird  has  splashed  about  to  his  content,  he 
flies  off  to  sit  on  some  topmost  bough  in  the  sun 
to  dry  his  feathers,  like  a  woman  drying  her  hair. 
Sometimes  whole  families  come  to  take  a  com 
munity  bath,  spluttering  sociably  together  in  a 
charming  fashion. 

The  gazing-globe  is  another  piece  of  outdoor 
furniture  that  is  attractive  to  the  birds,  though  not 
primarily  established  for  them.  Birds  are  unable 
to  understand  the  nature  and  utility  of  this  big 
ball  of  water  that  is  not  ice  —  how  could  there  be 
ice  in  the  summer  time?  —  and  anyway  this  isn't 
cold  !  —  and  that  stands  forever  without  melting  on 
a  pedestal  in  the  sun.  They  fly  around  over  it, 
light  on  it,  and  gravely  consider  their  reflections  in 


g>tubp  from  a  Country  JDordj        121 


its  polished  mirror.  They  trip  over  it  from  side  to 
side,  and  then  around  the  base  of  it,  trying  to  find 
those  other  birds  that  move  but  make  no  sound. 
They  examine  the  reflections  of  the  lake,  the  trees, 
the  grass,  the  clouds,  and  the  bright  colors  of  the 
flowers,  then  fly  away  as  if  mystified. 

There  is  a  catbird  that  is  more  persistent  in 
his  curiosity  than  the  others.  He  comes  back  re 
peatedly,  joggling  his  tail  like  a  pancake  turner, 
and  running  over  the  globe.  He  grows  enraged 
over  his  inability  to  understand  the  thing  and 
utters  passionate  cries,  jerking  his  tail  in  temper. 
He  pecks  furiously  at  the  bird  that  so  insults  him, 
the  evasive  bunch  of  feathers  that  is  securely 
hidden  somewhere,  —  but  where?  I  have  never 
seen  bafflement  so  plainly  expressed  as  in  the 
attitude  of  that  catbird  on  the  globe.  If  that 
bird  were  human  and  capable  of  doing  research 
work,  he  could  make  remarkable  contributions  to 
science,  for  he  never  gives  up.  If  he  had  the 
power  of  speech,  he  could  enlighten  us  on  many 
other  subjects  he  has  investigated,  less  elusive 
than  that  matter  of  the  gazing-globe. 

A  red  cardinal  flashes  through  the  leafage  occa 
sionally,  like  a  flaming  thought,  and  leaves  me 
rejoicing  in  such  miracle  of  color,  as  in  that  of  the 


122  jftom  a  &outiiern  $orcf) 

salamander.  How  lovely  to  know  that  nature  has 
a  few  creatures  as  bright  as  if  the  whole  joyousness 
of  the  world  were  complete  in  them : 

With  a  red  flare  of  wings  the  wild  cardinal  flings 

His  bright  breast  'gainst  the  air. 
In  a  quiver  of  light  he  updarts  from  my  sight , 

And  is  lost  to  me  where 

The  pale,  ash-colored  evening  melts  into  the  far, 
Sphered  heaven  where  blooms  the  first  star. 

Oh,  the  day,  ere  he  came  like  a  wildering  flame, 

Was  so  somber  and  still ! 
But  that  swift  flash  of  wings  a  strange  ecstasy  brings 

All  my  being  to  thrill. 

It  was  so  I  knew  wings  of  the  spirit,  and  flame 
Of  wild  dreams,  a  dull  day  when  you  came! 

At  dusk,  before  the  last  light  of  day  is  fading, 
and  when  the  stars  are  just  beginning  to  show,  but 
before  the  fireflies  shimmer  in  the  grass,  the  bats 
may  be  seen  stealing  out  on  soundless  wings,  circling 
the  open  spaces  above  the  lawn.  I  have  always 
felt  a  sympathy  with  a  bat,  because  he  is  different 
from  other  birds  in  being  shunned  and  feared. 
People  loathe  him  as  they  do  reptiles,  and  yet  why? 
Other  birds  are  loved  for  their  song  or  plumage; 
the  eagle  is  respected,  and  even  the  homely  buzzard 
is  grudgingly  conceded  to  be  useful  in  disposing  of 


g>tufc|>  from  a  Country  $orcf)        123 


nature's  garbage.  But  the  bat  is  forlorn,  so  the 
poor  thing  has  to  slip  out  in  the  dark,  and  fly 
about,  making  no  noise.  He  has  the  manner  of  a 
stepchild  or  of  a  poor  relation. 

The  screech  owl  is  another  bird  that  is  regarded 
with  popular  disfavor  but  that  I  admire.  I  think 
that  the  cry  of  the  screech  owl  is  one  of  the  sweetest, 
most  musical  sounds  in  nature.  Its  mournful, 
eerie  voice  in  the  night,  when  all  else  is  still,  is 
uncanny,  I  admit,  with  its  traditional  presaging 
of  death,  yet  it  is  beautiful  in  its  cadences.  The 
negroes  believe  that  the  screech  owl  foretells  death 
to  some  member  of  a  household  when  it  cries  near 
the  home.  You  know  it  isn't  true  —  your  reason 
quite  convinces  you  on  that  point,  yet  you  cannot 
help  believing  the  superstition  when  you  hear 
the  mysterious  tremulo  at  midnight.  You  wonder 
whose  summons  it  is  now,  and  you  shudder  as  you 
put  the  pillows  over  yours  ears  to  shut  out  the 
sound. 

My  mother  used  to  tell  us  of  an  incident  in  the 
life  of  her  mother,  who  was  lying  alone  in  her  room 
one  night,  with  a  baby  only  a  few  days  old  beside 
her.  She  was  watching  the  play  of  flames  in  the 
big  open  fireplace,  when  she  heard  the  cry  of  a 
screech  owl,  and  saw  the  bird  fly  down  the  chim- 


124  Jfrom  a  &outfjern 


ney  ,  pick  up  in  its  claws  a  live  coal  from  the  hearth, 
and  disappear  up  the  chimney.  When  others 
came  into  the  room  and  heard  of  the  incident, 
they  laughed  at  her  for  a  dreamer.  But  the  next 
evening  one  of  the  negro  slaves  about  the  planta 
tion  shot  a  screech  owl  that  was  crying  on  the  roof 
of  the  house,  and  when  he  picked  up  the  bird,  he 
found  that  its  claws  were  burnt  to  a  crisp.  The 
baby  died  the  next  day. 

Women  seem  to  have  a  natural  fear  of  the  screech 
owl,  and  make  no  concealment  of  it.  A  woman 
living  near  here  is  agitated  whenever  she  hears  one, 
so  that  it  has  come  to  be  a  jest  among  her  friends. 
Recently  some  joker  sent  her  a  dead  owl,  which  was 
thrown  on  to  the  sideboard  after  her  husband  had 
frightened  her  with  it.  The  next  morning  the 
cook,  thinking  it  a  game  bird  the  husband  had 
brought  home  to  eat,  served  it  to  him  for  his  break 
fast.  He  is  now  the  one  who  stirs  squeamishly 
when  he  hears  a  screech  owl  crying. 

A  gray  crane  lived  in  solitude  about  the  lake  for 
some  days  recently,  flying  lonesomely  over  the 
water,  or  standing  with  pensive  foot  on  some  reed- 
encircled  log  near  the  shore.  I  wonder  what 
agonies  of  loneliness  a  bird  or  animal  must  feel  to 


g>ttibp  from  a  Country  $ordj       123 


think  himself  for  a  time  the  only  one  of  his  family 
in  the  world.  The  craving  for  human  affection 
that  tame  birds  and  animals  show  is  pathetic,  as 
evidencing  their  sense  of  need  for  something  out 
side  themselves.  Or  maybe  that  crane  has  been  suf 
fering  from  excess  of  society,  and  has  deliberately 
sought  a  lake  where  he  could  be  by  himself  for 
awhile.  Cranes  are  noncommittal,  as  are  some 
human  beings,  so  that  one  doesn't  know  whether 
to  sympathize  with  or  congratulate  them.  One 
wouldn't  like,  for  instance,  to  commiserate  an  old 
bachelor,  when  he  is  congratulating  himself  on 
being  untrammeled. 

The  gray  crane  flew  away  after  awhile,  and  I 
saw  him  no  more.  I  missed  him  at  first,  but 
presently  I  was  to  have  a  thrill  greater  than  any 
he  ever  gave  me.  One  morning  as  I  was  sitting 
on  the  porch,  looking  out  toward  the  lake,  I  saw 
through  the  vista  of  open  space  down  the  hill,  a 
flock  of  large  white  birds,  white  herons  flying  from 
the  direction  of  the  river.  They  circled  majesti 
cally  over  the  tops  of  the  pine  trees,  flew  in  grace 
ful  lines  of  formation  over  the  water,  and  settled 
down  on  the  low  limbs  of  an  oak  near  the  edge  of 
the  lake.  Snatching  my  field  glasses,  I  ran  down 
the  hill  and  across  the  road,  to  see  them  better. 


126  Jfrom  a  g>outfjern  $orcfj 

They  were  so  lovely !  There  were  seven  of  them, 
— enchanted  sisters  I  felt  sure,  bound  by  some 
spell,  whom  I  might  awaken  if  only  I  knew  the 
magic  word.  But  I  didn't! 

I  watched  them  most  of  that  morning,  as  they 
flitted  over  the  sedge  grass  and  cat-tails  by  the 
edge  of  the  water,  or  swept  above  the  lake,  or 
lingered  on  the  little  island  in  the  middle  of  the 
water.  They  would  smooth  their  white  feathers, 
preening  their  graceful  necks,  and  gaze  at  their 
reflections  in  the  water. 

These  beautiful  visitants  remained  about  the 
lake  for  almost  a  week.  Each  morning  I  would 
rush  out  to  see  if  they  were  still  there,  and  would 
creep  round  the  bank  to  get  a  better  view  of  them, 
lurking  behind  a  clump  of  shrubs  to  snapshot 
them.  But  the  click  of  the  kodak  always  alarmed 
them,  so  that  they  were  up  in  an  instant  and  off 
across  the  water. 

They  left  in  the  night,  I  suppose,  because  one 
morning  when  I  came  out,  they  were  gone,  and  I 
have  not  seen  them  since.  I  wonder  by  what 
waters  they  are  flitting  now,  whose  eyes  rejoicing 
with  their  beauty? 

Sometimes  I  see  a  slow-circling  hawk  winging 
its  way  far  above  me.  If  the  mother  hen  spies 


ibtufcp  from  a  Country  ^orcf)       127 


him,  she  calls  her  chicks  frantically,  giving  a  hen 
siren  to  intimate  that  the  Zeppelin  is  about.  The 
gardener,  Mose,  gets  his  rifle  and  takes  a  shot  at  it, 
but  never  hits  it. 

Occasionally  a  clumsy  turkey  buzzard,  ugly  as 
a  gargoyle,  balances  himself  on  some  far  fence,  his 
ragged  wings  fla  pping  awkwardly,  his  horny  head 
held  to  one  side,  as  if  sniffing  for  carrion.  A  buz 
zard  is  an  anomaly  among  birds,  which  even  a  pro 
nounced  bird-lover  finds  hard  to  be  fond  of. 

I  love  to  sit  as  still  as  possible  here  and  listen  to 
the  bird  sounds  all  about.  Birdcalls  melt  into 
other  sounds  of  nature  and  of  the  stir  of  life  about 
us,  almost  indistinguishably,  yet  if  I  listen  for 
them,  and  seek  to  separate  them  from  other 
noises,  I  have  a  pure  delight.  There  is  music  in 
every  bird  note,  no  matter  how  awkward  and  ill- 
natured  the  bird  may  be.  That  crow  sitting  on  the 
fence  and  complaining  at  the  scarecrow  in  the 
field  has  a  musical  intonation.  The  vociferations 
of  the  jay  bird  are  harmonious  when  listened  to 
appreciatively,  and  the  blackbirds'  family  quarrel 
has  sweet  concord  for  me.  I  love  to  hear  the 
redbird  calling  her  mate,  in  a  clear  imperative 
whistle,  that  is  answered  from  the  top  of  yonder 


128  Jfrom  a  ^outfjern  <porcf) 

pine  where  her  husband  is  sunning  himself.  A 
little  ash-gray  soul  comes  from  the  thicket  to 
answer  the  call  of  "Phoebe!  Phoebe!"  as  she 
rejoins  her  disconsolate  mate.  There  is  a  little 
bird  that  calls  softly,  "Whisht!  Whisht!"  but  I 
cannot  find  out  who  it  is — not  that  it  matters, 
however,  since  it  is  restful  not  to  know  the  name  of 
everything,  and  a  birdcall  sounds  as  sweet  without 
classification  as  with  it. 

The  catbird  attitudinizes  on  the  rustic  seat, 
looking  up  to  give  his  summoning  cry  from  time  to 
time.  From  a  near-by  tree  I  can  hear  a  wood 
pecker's  repetend  thrum  and  see  a  redhead  flashing 
to  and  fro.  From  far-off  fields  come  the  anti- 
phonal  calls  of  the  quails.  ' '  Bobwhite !  Bobwhite ! 
All  right!  All  right!"  The  call  of  the  quail  is 
soothingly  monotonous.  I  recall  with  special 
pleasure  visits  that  I  used  to  make  to  a  great 
plantation  near  here,  where  my  room  looked  over 
a  vast  field  of  wheat,  with  quails  in  it  that  woke  me 
in  the  early  morning.  I  would  steal  to  the  window 
to  hear  them  and  to  see  the  waving  grain  that  re 
minded  me  of  my  own  prairies  with  their  rippling 
grass. 

The  wrens  sing  about  their  work,  and  the  song 
sparrows  send  their  soft  melodious  songs  into  the 


gbtubp  from  a  Country  J)ordj       129 


silences.  The  hen  clucks  to  her  brood  with  varied 
intonations.  Someone  recently  tried  an  experi 
ment  with  a  chicken,  keeping  it  in  a  room  where 
canaries  were.  She  affirmed  that  the  chick  tried 
to  sing  and  had  a  musical  note  unlike  that  of  any 
ordinary  chick.  Why  shouldn't  that  experiment 
be  tried  on  a  wide  scale,  I  wonder?  But  then  one 
might  ask  himself  the  question  as  to  why  chickens 
in  the  country,  here  for  instance,  that  constantly 
hear  birds  sing,  never  try  it  themselves.  But  the 
matter  is  interesting  material  for  investigation, 
anyhow. 

I  wonder  if  the  birds  listen  to  us  human  beings 
as  we  do  to  them,  and  try  to  understand  our  lan 
guage.  Do  they  ever  translate  our  remarks  into 
bird  lingo?  Do  they  try  to  interpret  our  motions 
and  emotions  as  we  do  theirs?  Fancy  wrens 
putting  into  bird  dialect  the  conversation  of  a 
porch  full  of  women,  for  instance! 

There  are  some  bird  songs  so  soft  and  far  away 
that  I  can  hardly  hear  them  with  the  naked  ear, 
but  they  blend  into  the  general  harmony.  In  the 
country  there  are  only  pleasant  sounds,  while  in 
the  city  there  are  noises.  The  friction  of  human 
life  seems  always  to  produce  noise  and  dirt,  while 
that  of  nature  alone  is  clean  and  harmonious.  And 


130  Jfrom  a  g>outf)ern  $orcf) 

even  man-made  noises  in  the  country,  as  the  saw 
ing  of  wood,  the  whir  of  the  lawn  mower,  the  swish 
of  the  scythe,  are  pleasant  to  hear,  while  the  city's 
hoarse  discordances  tire  the  ear  of  body  and  spirit. 
I  am  impressed  with  the  marvelous  reticence 
of  nature,  so  soothing  after  human  inquisitiveness ! 
Birds  and  flowers  and  trees  never  have  the  vice  of 
confidencing,  and  chipmunks  and  toads  never  try 
to  worm  your  secrets  from  you.  Perhaps  it  is  be 
cause  nature  publishes  no  newspapers  or  maga 
zines,  and  writes  no  books.  That  lizard  never 
really  lets  you  into  the  secret  of  his  soul,  and  that 
bat  maintains  a  self-respecting  silence  concerning 
his  family  affairs.  Yon  flying  squirrel  may  have 
horrible  skeletons  in  his  tree  closet,  but  he  never 
brings  out  so  much  as  a  bone  to  bore  you  with. 
Those  wrens,  though  they  be  housemates  of  yours, 
and  talkative  as  they  are,  have  the  artful  grace  of 
entertaining  without  telling  their  secrets.  Perhaps 
it  is  because  they  have  no  hair  to  let  down  at 
night.  Then  is  when  women  reveal  things  to  their 
later  annoyance.  That,  I  think,  is  the  reason  why 
— if  indeed  it  be  so ! — men  are  less  confiding  than 
women.  Shaving  is  less  favorable  for  conversa 
tion,  and  the  fear  lest  lather  get  into  the  mouth 
must  keep  many  secrets  safe. 


g>tub|>  from  a  Country  $orcf)       131 


I  have  always  envied  those  blest  creatures  in 
fairy  tales  who  had  the  gift  of  understanding  the 
language  of  birds  and  beasts,  but  I  wonder  if  the 
artful  things  didn't  fool  them  after  all.  What  do 
the  birds  and  animals  think  of  us  human  beings? 
Perhaps  they  understand  us  better  than  we  do 
them,  and  doubtless  it  is  more  comfortable  for  us 
not  to  know  what  is  their  opinion  of  us.  But  they 
could  teach  us  wisdom  on  many  points,  if  only 
we'd  learn  of  them. 

The  sanity  and  repose  of  nature  is  in  contrast  to 
our  mental  states.  Did  any  one  ever  hear  of  a 
turtle's  having  nervous  prostration,  or  an  angle 
worm's  going  insane  ?  A  bullfrog  takes  mud  baths, 
but  not  for  his  nerves,  and  a  cricket  never  suffers 
from  melancholia.  Most  of  our  human  ills  could 
be  cured  if  we'd  study  nature  on  a  country  porch, 
instead  of  going  to  hospitals  in  cities. 

I  love  to  study  bird's  nests  more  than  any  human 
habitation.  They  are  so  pathetically  frail,  and 
yet  so  delicately  and  cunningly  contrived  to  shield 
the  tiny  occupant  from  wind  and  rain  !  A  bird's 
nest  that  has  fallen  to  the  ground  after  a  storm  has 
power  to  touch  me  to  tears.  It  seems  a  living 
thing  itself,  that  must  have  suffered  and  been 
afraid  in  the  darkness  and  gale. 


132  Jftom  a  g>outJ)ern  $orcj) 

The  song  sparrow  builds  near  the  ground,  while 
the  wren  seeks  protection  of  some  human  house. 
The  mocking  bird  has  a  home  anywhere,  in  a  tree 
or  in  a  tangle  of  rose  vine.  A  mocking  bird  has  a 
nest  in  the  Cherokee  rose  vine  here,  where  it  is 
secure  in  the  thorn-guarded  recesses  and  sings 
impudently  about  it  to  cats  and  whoever  may 
hear.  A  crow's  nest  has  a  casual  slatternliness 
about  it  in  contrast  to  the  finical  ways  of  more 
dainty  birds.  A  crow  merely  throws  a  few  sticks 
together  and  calls  it  a  nest,  apparently  careless  as 
to  whether  the  babies  fall  out  or  not,  and  indiffer 
ent  to  the  hardness  of  the  bed.  I  saw  one  the 
other  day,  made  of  sticks  and  grass,  with  five 
speckled  eggs  in  it. 

A  boy  brought  me  a  wood  pee  wee's  nest  the  other 
day,  a  little  elongated,  pensile  thing,  a  delicate 
structure  of  moss  and  wood  fiber  and  wool  from 
the  sheep's  backs,  a  fairy  home.  Once  in  California 
I  saw  in  the  shade  of  an  arc  light  on  the  street, 
a  Baltimore  oriole's  nest.  When  the  light  was 
on,  one  could  see  the  mother  bird  sitting  on  her 
nest  with  her  head  tucked  under  wing,  fast 
asleep,  or  else  with  her  eyes  wide  open  to  see 
what  was  going  on.  She  was  indifferent  to  the 
glare  of  the  light  and  to  the  gaze  of  the  passer- 


ISirb  Sbtubp  from  a  Country  JDorcfj        133 

by.     An  interesting  example  of  light  housekeep 
ing,  that! 

I  saw  the  other  day  a  wonderful  bird  house  that 
an  inmate  of  the  state  farm  near  by  had  made. 
It  is  an  elaborate  structure,  with  cupolas,  with 
porches  all  around  the  house,  and  with  various 
floors.  In  the  different  rooms  different  sorts  of 
birds  make  their  home,  so  that  it  is  like  a  city 
apartment.  I  don't  think  I  care  for  the  birds  to 
imitate  our  crowded  habits  of  living,  and  think  it 
would  be  more  sensible  if  human  beings  imitated 
nests — though  when  the  wild  winds  blow,  the 
houses  are  safer,  I  admit.  I  should  like  to  live  in 
a  tree  myself,  on  a  little  platform  with  a  roof  over 
head.  But  after  all,  a  porch  with  trees  beside  it  is 
more  habitable,  on  the  whole.  I  am  afraid  I 
should  find  a  nest  a  bit  crowded — I  being  less 
adaptable  than  a  bird. 


BOTANIZING   FROM  A   COUNTRY   PORCH 

ONE  of  the  joys  of  porching  is  that  things  come 
to  you.  Persons  who  go  out  into  the  world  to 
seek  adventure  or  knowledge,  who  turn  life  over  in 
the  attempt  to  make  things  happen,  to  discover 
how  they  work,  are  victims  of  their  own  misguided 
energy.  They  would  get  ahead  much  faster  if 
they  would  stand  still.  Loafing  is  an  art  few 
mortals  know  how  to  recapture.  Animals  know 
it,  and  children,  and  college  students,  but  hardly 
anyone  past  his  diplomage.  The  fevered  impulse 
of  the  time  drives  one  to  be  doing  something — not 
constructive  tasks  necessarily,  but  anything  to 
keep  the  mind  and  body  from  resting.  Persons 
who  would  scorn  useful  work  of  any  kind,  give 
themselves  brain  fag  by  arduous  efforts  at  enter 
tainment.  They  seem  to  think  that  if  they  al 
lowed  themselves  one  moment  for  reposeful 
thought,  some  emptiness  within  would  drive  them 
mad.  Death  is  the  first  opportunity  for  loafing 

134 


from  a  Country  $ord)        135 


that  some  mortals  allow  themselves  —  and  they'd 
dodge  that  if  they  could. 

As  for  myself,  I've  determined  that  I  shall  get 
rested  before  I  die  so  that  I  may  be  fresh  for  what 
ever  adventure  offers  itself  on  the  other  side. 
Illogically,  I  always  prefer  to  rest  at  the  wrong 
times  —  dearly  loving,  for  example,  to  loaf  on 
Monday  morning  when  shrewish  duties  cry  out 
upon  me  for  accomplishment.  I  joy  in  dawdling 
over  my  breakfast  and  the  morning  paper  while 
laundry  shrieks  to  be  counted,  and  other  house 
wifely  tasks  assail  in  vain  my  Southern  conscience. 
I'm  glad  I'm  not  a  New  Englander! 

After  all,  loafing  is  the  really  important  object 
in  life.  I  love  to  lie  abed  till  late  o'clock,  and  if 
I  tell  myself  at  times,  "You  should  get  up," 
myself  tells  me,  "Why  so?"  Suppose  I  get  up 
and  work  an  hour  and  earn  money  —  what  could  I 
buy  with  that  sum  "one  half  so  precious"  as  the 
leisure  I  should  barter  for  it? 

I  once  heard  of  an  idiot  boy,  physically  strong 
enough  for  work,  but  steadfast  in  his  refusal  to  en 
gage  in  it.  When  asked  to  perform  any  task,  he 
would  smile  a  crafty  smile,  and  say,  "What's  the 
use?"  I  think  that  boy  was  wise  beyond  his 
fellows,  and  his  intelligent  question  might  well  be 


136  Jfrom  a  g>outfjern  $orcfj 

projected  into  many  a  discussion.  We  fash  our 
selves  doing  many  things  we'd  leave  undone,  if  we 
asked  ourselves,  "What's  the  use?" 

But  as  I  was  saying,  the  person  who  waits  re- 
posefully  on  life  gets  what  he  wishes  and  has  the 
joy  of  loafing  thrown  in  as  lagniappe.  Now  I  de 
light  to  botanize,  though — or  perhaps  because — I 
am  comfortably  ignorant  of  the  subject.  (Igno 
rance  is  as  soothing  as  a  down  pillow  and  is  my 
refuge  in  many  an  emergency.)  Yet  plodding 
about  through  wet  grass  on  the  trail  of  truant 
flowers  and  elusive  weeds  is  arduous,  and  on  the 
v:hole  unprofitable.  I  prefer  the  fatigueless  sport 
of  sitting  still  and  botanizing  with  the  eye  and  a 
pair  of  good  field-glasses.  What  I  can't  see  in  one 
day  will  to-morrow  be  brought  to  my  porch  by 
some  assistful  friend  more  agile  of  foot  than  am  I. 
I  take  a  chuckleful  delight  in  seeing  how  the  world 
serves  a  lazy  person — as  if  pleblian  energy  paid 
tribute  to  aristocracy  of  ease.  If  someone  in  my 
hearing  mentions  plant  or  flower  that  is  unknown 
to  me,  all  I  need  do  is  to  murmur  longingly, 
"  How  I'd  love  to  see  that!  Do  you  know  where 
it  grows?"  Next  day  it  will  be  laid  on  my  couch 
with  explanatory  comment,  and  I  can  give  all  my 
mental  force  to  admiring  it,  whereas  if  I  had 


from  a  Country  $otc^        137 


trudged  on  tired  feet  to  find  it,  I  should  probably 
be  cross  and  disappointed  on  seeing  it.  I  also 
take  pleasure  in  not  knowing  the  technical  names 
of  growing  things,  since  the  unfamiliar  plant,  like 
the  song  of  an  unknown  bird,  has  a  special  charm 
for  my  unerudite  ear. 

Porch  gardening  is  delightful,  for  one  digs  only 
with  speculative  gaze,  and  gathers  the  harvest 
of  beauty  without  toil  of  hands.  Gardens-in-law 
are  enjoyable,  since  one  may  take  pleasure  in  them 
without  responsibility  for  wielding  the  spade,  or 
even  directing  hired  hands. 

As  I  lie  restfully  on  this  quiet  porch,  I  watch  the 
days  swing  by,  recorded  in  this  calendared  garden 
before  me.  I  may  even  tell  the  time  of  day  and 
count  the  hours  by  the  morning-glories,  the  moon- 
flowers,  the  four-o'  clocks,  and  such  methodical, 
regular-habited  blossoms.  I  can  note  the  flowers 
close  their  eyes  in  sleep  —  as  the  daisies  for  instance, 
and  open  gayly  in  the  morning  with  dew-washed 
little  faces.  The  sweet-scented  days  go  by  as 
a  dream-pageant,  and  the  cloaked  and  hooded 
evenings  are  a  masque  of  shadows,  each  like  to  the 
others,  yet  with  its  subtle  difference  of  delight. 
I  know  not  which  is  most  beautiful,  the  June  riot 
of  roses  and  of  daisy-snowed  fields,  the  loveliness 


138  Jfrom  a  ^outjern  $orcf) 

of  Queen  Anne's  lace  in  midsummer,  or  the  Mid- 
das  miracle  of  goldenrod  in  the  autumn.  Which  is 
most  to  be  admired,  the  masculine  serenity  and 
strength  of  a  pine  tree,  or  the  feminine  grace  of  a 
vine  that  tactfully  covers  up  barrenness  and 
ugliness,  or  the  childlike  appeal  in  the  face  of  a  wild 
flower? 

I  have  always  felt  a  sneaking  fellowship  with 
Ahaz,  who,  as  the  Bible  tells  us,  burnt  incense  in 
high  places,  and  on  the  hills,  and  under  every 
green  tree.  It  was  idolatrous,  hence  reprehensible, 
of  course,  but  I  don't  hold  it  against  him,  for  I 
burn  incense  in  my  heart  under  every  green  tree. 
Such  benignant  beauty  stirs  in  me  a  rapturous 
worship,  for  trees  seem  to  me  the  most  majestic 
of  all  growing  things  in  nature  and  the  most 
abiding.  Grass  and  flowers  are  lovely,  but  they 
fade  and  pass,  while  a  tree  is  permanent,  more  so 
than  man.  Trees  last  while  generations  of 
men  live  their  ephemeral  lives  and  are  for 
gotten.  Down  in  Mexico  is  a  living  tree,  the 
oldest  in  the  world,  a  giant  cypress  that  was  cen 
turies  old  when  Christ  underwent  His  Passion 
beneath  the  olive  trees  in  the  garden.  That  tree 
has  lived  through  eras  of  which  man's  record  is  but 
dim  and  doubtful,  yet  to-day  it  stands,  and  will 


JBotanf?fng  from  a  Country  $orcf)        139 

outlive   the   lives   of    generations    after  we    are 
gone. 

Yet  despite  man's  pettiness  and  nature's  majes 
tic  permanence,  despite  the  fact  that  man  is  but 
a  midge  that  frets  about  a  mighty  tree,  he  has  the 
power  to  destroy  its  life.  How  incomprehensible ! 
We  human  beings  hew  down  trees  that  we  may  use 
their  fiber  to  print  our  trifling  books  upon,  but 
what  volumes  are  worth  the  trees  destroyed  to 
print  them?  Is  not  the  rustle  of  green,  living 
leaves  in  the  forest  more  to  be  desired  than  the 
dry  flutter  of  bleached  leaves  in  a  book,  covered 
with  black  letters  like  fidgeting  flies?  Think  of 
slaying  happy  trees  to  publish  congressional  re 
ports,  for  instance,  or  doctorate  dissertations  that 
count  the  commas  in  some  forgotten  manuscripts, 
or  learned  altercations  over  dead  philosophies! 
Think  how  clean-hearted,  pure-fibered  trees  must 
feel  over  being  stained  with  erotic  stories,  at  being 
corrupted  by  garbage  journalism!  There  should 
be  laws  passed  to  prevent  such  cruelty  to  trees, 
such  witless  barter  of  beauty  for  dust  and  ashes. 

I  think  trees  do  not  mind  being  hewn  down  to 
make  homes  for  men  and  women  to  live  in,  places 
to  shelter  little  children,  but  they  must  wave  their 
arms  in  unavailing  protest  in  the  night  when  they 


140  Jfrom  a  £>o«tf)ern 


think  of  being  made  the  pages  for  man's  unclean 
imaginings  and  cynic  sneers.  I  often  think  of 
Joyce  Kilmer's  lines, 

Poetry's  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  could  make  a  tree! 

I  lie  for  hours  at  a  time,  watching  the  pine  trees, 
with  their  green  everlastingness,  their  dignity  of 
permanence  in  a  world  of  change.  What  do  they 
think  of  as  they  stand  there,  their  roots  searching 
the  secrets  of  the  earth,  their  tops  touched  with 
sunlight?  They  watch  the  white  clouds  form  and 
change  in  the  blue  heavens  ;  they  know  the  passing 
of  migrant  birds  that  rest  for  awhile  in  their 
branches  ;  they  share  in  the  loves  of  home-keeping 
birds  that  build  their  homes  in  safety  in  those 
green  fastnesses.  The  squirrels,  gray  ones  and 
red,  chase  each  other  chattering  through  the 
branches  all  day,  and  flying  squirrels  make  their 
darting  leaps  to  safety  in  those  arms.  The  pine 
trees  are  indulgent  to  all  the  young  life  about  them, 
as  if  they  knew  how  brief  the  playtime  is. 

On  the  slope  of  the  hill  and  across  the  road  are 
cedars,  richly  green.  As  I  look  at  them,  I  think 
of  Algernon  Blackwood's  account  of  the  cedar, 


g>tubp  from  a  Country  $orcJ)       141 


in  The  Man  Whom  the  Trees  Loved,  as  being  more 
friendly  to  man  than  any  other,  protecting  him 
against  sinister  forest  forces.  The  hill  is  covered 
with  trees,  tulip  poplars  that  lately  were  gay  with 
lovely  blossoms  ;  chestnuts  that  had  their  gorgeous 
blooms  that  have  faded  now  ;  holly  trees  with  their 
bright,  thorny  leaves;  oaks  of  various  kinds,  and 
many  others. 

The  big  oak  by  the  porch  is  full  of  constant 
interest  for  me.  Tree  toads  live  in  its  hollows, 
and  flying  squirrels  play  about  its  branches,  mak 
ing  daring  efforts  to  leap  into  the  bird  nests  to 
pillage.  The  lizards  run  up  and  down  its  gray, 
gnarled  trunk.  From  the  hickory  trees  out  in  the 
open,  the  green  nuts  are  falling  to  the  ground, 
startling  the  grass  with  their  suddenness  of  de 
scent.  Great  copper  beeches  stretch  their  limbs, 
green  now,  but  lately  glowing  with  a  wonderful 
shimmering  coppery  shade.  I  can  never  forget 
the  glory  of  the  copper  beeches  one  springtime  in 
Oxford! 

In  the  open  sunlight  are  mimosa  or  acacia  trees, 
with  their  leaves  whose  delicate  tracery  is  like 
that  of  ferns,  and  whose  pink  blossoms  are  like  the 
pompons  of  the  sensitive  plant,  delicately  soft  and 
perfumed.  In  the  full  sunlight  magnolias  are 


142  Jfrom  a  i£>outf)ern 


blooming.  Surely  a  magnolia  in  blossom  is  the 
most  beautiful  tree  in  the  world  !  The  leaves,  wide 
and  long,  are  as  glossy  as  exquisite  enameling  in 
their  rich  green.  The  blossoms,  opening  to  the 
sun,  great  perfumed  whitenesses  with  jasmine 
delicacy  and  sweetness,  are  like  flowers  seen  in 
some  happy  dream.  A  magnolia  blossom  is  like 
moonlight  taking  flower-shape.  The  petals  are  so 
sensitive  that  one  alien  touch  will  turn  them  dark, 
defacing  their  beauty.  As  the  flower  fades,  the 
petals  drop  one  by  one,  leaving  the  golden  heart 
bare. 

Magnolia  leaves  will  remain  green  for  a  long 
time,  even  when  they  are  picked  from  the  tree, 
and  after  they  turn  brown,  they  keep  their  shape 
indefinitely.  While  the  leaf  is  fresh,  one  may  write 
on  it  with  a  sharp  twig  or  instrument  and  the  writ 
ing  stands  out  plainly  even  when  the  leaf  is  brown 
and  dead.  I  saw  a  wreath  of  magnolia  leaves  laid 
on  Shakespeare's  tomb  on  his  birthday  once,  with 
messages  of  reverence  from  some  admirer  in  the 
South,  our  South,  where  the  magnolias  grow. 
How  Shakespeare  would  have  loved  a  magnolia 
tree! 

As  I  look  at  these  trees  about  me,  I  feel  that  the 
Greeks  were  right  in  thinking  that  the  trees  had 


JBotam^tng  from  a  Country  ^orcfj        143 

spirits,  in  visioning  a  beautiful  maiden  in  the  heart 
of  each  forest  miracle.  I  look  for  dryad  flutterings, 
but  in  vain.  I  hear  faint,  elfin  chuckles  in  the 
woods,  but  glimpse  no  fleeing  shapes.  What  pre- 
ences  are  round  me  that  I  cannot  hear  or  see? 
The  bodiless  wind  allures  me ;  the  mist  lies  over  the 
lake,  touching  the  forms  of  the  trees  to  a  fainter, 
more  shadowy  grace,  but  I  cannot  tell  if  it  be  only 
mist  or  the  floating  of  some  filmy  drapery.  A 
little  white  butterfly  drifts  up  as  if  it  would  tell  me 
what  I  wish,  but  it  is  so  shy  it  flits  away  again 
before  my  dulled  senses  grasp  its  thought.  The 
pine  trees  murmur  in  another  language  than  my 
own,  and  I  do  not  know  the  meaning  of  that  sweet, 
prelusory  call  from  the  topmost  branch  of  the  elm 
tree  beside  the  driveway.  There  are  times  when 
nature  shuts  us  out  from  her  secrecies  however 
much  we  long  to  know. 

Even  so,  what  majesties  are  trees !  In  cities  we 
have  only  houses  and  people,  poor  substitutes  for 
trees  and  birds!  Trees  have  souls,  I  am  sure,  and 
whoso  harms  them  willfully  will  come  into  a  judg 
ment  for  his  deeds.  I  am  impressed  by  Alice 
Brown's  story  of  the  German  soldiers  in  hell,  who 
are  tortured  by  the  ghosts  of  trees  they  slew  in 
France  and  Belgium.  How  the  trees  must  have 


144  Jfrom  a  £>otitfjern 


suffered  in  the  war!  Think  of  the  agony  of  a 
tree  helpless  to  protect  the  nestlings  trusted  to  its 
care,  powerless  to  shield  the  dryad  spirit  sheltering 
in  its  heart!  Dante  should  be  here  to  devise 
a  deeper  depth  of  hell  for  those  who  murder 
trees! 

The  porches  here  are  covered  in  with  vines  of 
various  sorts,  that  make  a  bowered  privacy  in  places, 
yet  leave  a  clear  view  of  the  hill  and  the  lake  and  the 
road.  There  are  rose  vines  along  the  columns, 
Marechal  Niels  with  their  golden  loveliness,  and 
climbing  American  beauties,  that  a  little  earlier 
were  a  mass  of  delight,  and  white  climbers,  and 
pink  ones.  On  a  back  porch  an  old-fashioned  yel 
low  rose  of  humble  origin  is  allowed  to  clamber, 
with  its  unassuming  flowers  and  its  faint  odor. 

Yellow  roses,  quaint  and  shy, 
All  a-riot  on  the  high 
Trellised  wall,  I  mind  how  I 
Loved  you  in  my  childhood  days, 
Loved  you  for  your  errant  grace, 
For  each  fragile-pet  aled  face, 

For  your  faint,  elusive  scent's 

Delicate  impermanence. 

There  be  flowers  far  more  fair; 
Other  roses,  rich  and  rare, 
Others  choose,  —  what  do  I  care? 


Potam'?ing  from  a  Country  J)orch        145 

Yellow  roses  on  the  wall, 

Still  you  hold  my  heart  in  thrall. 

Sight  and  scent  of  you  up-call 

Memory's  dim,  delicious  pain. 

Lo,  I  am  a  child  again ! 

Beside  the  driveway  is  a  tangle  of  Cherokee 
roses,  where  the  mocking  birds  nest,  while  over  the 
wire  of  the  tennis  courts  white  and  purple  clematis 
bloom. 

On  one  side  of  the  porch  a  star  jasmine  climbs 
up  the  trellis,  with  its  clusters  of  tiny  stars,  a 
white  perfumed  constellation,  with  the  sweetest 
odor  in  the  world.  The  star  jasmine  is  to  me  one 
of  the  best-loved  flowers,  yet  it  brings  back  poign 
ant  memories.  I  never  smell  its  fragrance  that 
I  do  not  think  of  a  night  long  ago  one  May,  when 
my  father  lay  dying,  when  from  the  open  window 
came  the  odor  of  the  star  jasmine  on  the  wall  out 
side.  Why  is  it  that  odors  have  more  power  to 
recall  memories  than  have  sight  or  touch  or  sound? 

On  the  trellis  on  the  opposite  wall,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  porch,  yellow  jasmine  is  growing,  a  wild 
vine  that  my  mother  loved  best  of  all  flowers,  one 
that  grew  in  the  woods  of  her  girlhood.  It  has 
little  golden  bells  that  shake  in  the  breeze  and 
emit  soundless  perfume  sweet  as  dreams.  When 


146  Jfrom  a  ^outfjern 


it  grows  wild  in  its  native  state,  it  fills  the  woods 
with  sweetness. 

Along  the  front  of  the  porch  scarlet  sage  is  stand 
ing,  in  bright  independence,  with  dusty  miller  as  a 
foil.  All  day  long  the  humming  birds  are  poising 
to  sip  the  sweetness  from  these  honeyed  tiny  pitch 
ers,  their  whirring  wings  making  monotonous 
harmony  and  their  little  quivering  cries  stabbing 
the  silence. 

Along  the  stone  wall  at  the  crest  of  the  hill 
nasturtiums  are  blooming,  with  their  bright  im 
pressionism  against  a  background  of  soft  green 
shrubs  called  summer  cedars.  The  hill  is  white 
with  snowballs,  and  pink  and  lavender  with  hy 
drangeas,  while  against  the  western  wall  of  the 
house  forest  lilies  are  blooming,  graceful,  swaying 
in  the  wind  in  tawny  tints. 

In  the  back  is  an  old-fashioned  garden  with 
grandmotherly  flowers,  phlox,  zinnias,  prince's 
feather,  sweet  William,  clove  pinks,  and  the  like. 
Along  the  fence  grow  sweet  peas  and  tall,  gay- 
faced  hollyhocks,  with  ruffled  dresses,  and  sun 
flowers,  round  and  bright.  Here,  too,  are  the 
herbs,  sweet  basil,  lavender,  mint,  and  the  rest. 
There  is  lemon  verbena  whose  dried  leaves  hold 
summer  fragrance  all  through  the  winter,  and 


9otani?ing  from  a  Country  $ord)        147 

mint  that  goes  in  iced  tea  and  lemonade.  ' '  Tithes 
of  mint  and  anise  and  cummin,"  ah,  that  were 
tribute  worth  while ! 

Yonder  is  a  far  hedge  of  cr£pe  myrtle,  whose 
rose-colored  blossoms  are  like  young  girls'  party 
dresses,  soft,  and  bright  like  a  young  girl's  dreams. 
Across  their  vivid  beauty  a  bluebird  flashes  occa 
sionally,  like  a  swift  stroke  of  an  artist's  brush. 
White  and  purple  altheas  are  blooming  on  the  other 
side  of  the  garden,  nodding  to  each  other  and  to 
me,  as  the  wind  blows. 

Over  the  fence  of  the  vegetable  garden  in  the 
rear,  wild  blackberry  vines  trail  and  climb.  Walt 
Whitman  says  a  wild  blackberry  vine  is  beautiful 
enough  to  adorn  the  court  of  heaven,  which  may  be 
true,  but  in  my  opinion,  that  vine  will  never  get 
there.  It  is  like  some  beautiful  human  beings  that 
I  know,  temperamentally  unsuited  to  celestiality. 
Still,  I  admire  the  blackberry  vine  more  than  I  do 
human  clingers  and  climbers.  I  love  to  go  black- 
berrying  in  the  woodsy  places  about  here,  though 
I  have  difficulty  in  avoiding  entangling  alliances 
with  the  runners.  The  other  day  I  picked  a  gallon 
of  berries  in  the  woods  in  one  morning,  of  which  I 
made  jam.  Some  of  my  berries  were  wild  rasp 
berries,  but  they  didn't  injure  the  jam,  I'm  sure. 


148  Jfrom  a  ^>outfjern 


Did  you  ever  make  blackberry  jam  of  berries 
you  have  picked  right  in  the  woods  yourself?  It's 
a  delectable  experience,  and  then,  in  addition,  you 
have  the  jam.  There  is  a  proprietary  flavor  to 
berries  you've  gathered  yourself  that  no  alien  crop 
or  "boughten  berries"  can  afford,  though  I  was 
unable  to  explain  matters  to  Aunt  Mandy,  who 
generously  wished  to  add  to  my  gallon  a  quantity 
of  berries  she  had  got  from  a  couple  of  small  boys 
at  the  kitchen  door.  I  wished  to  keep  my  jam 
from  the  least  taint  of  commerciality,  so  I  cooked 
it  promptly  myself. 

Jam  gives  out  such  a  delicious  odor  when  it  is 
boiling,  and  it  is  such  fun  to  taste  it  occasionally, 
cooling  some  in  a  saucer,  to  see  if  it  is  done!  I 
made  constant  experiments,  partly  because  I  wished 
to  keep  the  jam  from  burning  and  partly  because  — 
I  liked  the  taste.  You  must  put  a  silver  fork  or 
spoon  in  the  jar  before  you  pour  in  the  hot  jam, 
to  keep  the  glass  from  cracking,  and  seal  the  jar 
quickly  while  it  is  boiling  hot. 

Thomas  Jefferson  Randolph  goes  with  me  when 
I  berry,  looking  much  like  a  ripe  blackberry  him 
self.  He  knows  where  all  the  thickest  growths  of 
berry  vines  are,  and  gives  me  much  untechnical 
information  concerning  birds  and  plants.  My 


2@otam?tng  from  a  Country  Jpordj        149 

attention  cannot  be  devoted  exclusively  to  black 
berries,  when  there  are  snakes  to  be  dodged,  bird 
nests  to  be  peered  into,  wild  flowers  to  be  gathered, 
and  pickaninnies  to  be  fraternized  with.  Critical 
members  of  the  household  sometimes  make  com 
ments  on  the  empty  spaces  in  my  buckets  when  I 
return  from  berrying,  but  I  explain  that  I  have 
brought  back  much  else  that  may  not  be  made  into 
pies  for  them  to  eat,  or  even  into  jam — but  is 
mysteriously  preserve'd  for  my  own  private  delecta 
tion  in  the  winter. 

I  asked  Lucia  and  the  Professor  to  go  with  me 
one  morning,  but  they  didn't  pick  as  many  berries 
as  even  T.  J.  R.  and  I  did.  Lucia  was  jumpy  over 
the  thought  of  snakes,  and  the  Professor  picked 
more  green  berries  than  he  did  ripe  ones,  for  how 
can  one  pick  the  right  kind  when  he  is  looking  at 
a  girl  instead  of  at  the  vine?  People  usually  do 
look  at  Lucia  when  she  is  around,  but,  to  my  mind, 
plump  blackberries  "smilin'  on  de  vine"  are  more 
attractive  than  two  eyes,  however  large  and  dusky, 
a  mouth  that  has  a  wistful  little  curve  to  it,  and 
dark  hair  that  waves  softly  away  from  a  rather 
eager,  serious  young  face.  But  then,  the  Profes 
sor  is  near-sighted,  which  perhaps  is  why  he  looks 
so  long  at  Lucia,  wishing  to  be  sure  of  what  her 


Jfrom  a 


features  are,  so  that  he  will  recognize  them  the  next 
time. 

There  are  many  creeping  things  of  beauty  in  the 
Virginia  woods  and  country  lanes,  and  in  the  fields. 
No  bareness  is  visible,  no  ugliness  but  is  covered 
with  viny  grace.  Over  many  a  bank  the  wild 
honeysuckle  spreads,  and  many  a  homely  fence 
is  mantled  with  its  loveliness  of  green  and  its  lit 
tle  perfumed  bugles.  There  is  the  white,  shading 
into  yellow,  and  there  is  also  the  coral  honey 
suckle,  with  a  bright  bloom.  When  the  honey 
suckle  is  in  its  first  glory  of  blossoms,  the  woods  and 
lanes  are  filled  with  fragrance. 

The  wild  morning-glory  climbs  up  every  corn 
stalk  in  the  field,  lifting  innumerable  blossoms 
like  bright  sunbonneted  heads  of  children,  pink 
and  blue  and  lavender.  Over  the  stumps  of  trees 
fallen  to  the  axe,  or  up  into  the  boughs  of  those 
dead  as  they  stand,  the  trumpet  -vine  clings  and 
clambers,  turning  decay  into  indomitable  beauty. 
Every  fence  post,  every  telegraph  or  telephone 
pole,  is  thus  glorified  with  the  brilliant  trumpets 
that  send  a  challenge  of  loveliness  in  the  face  of 
the  world,  comforting  with  tribute  of  love  the 
thing  that  in  some  yesterday  was  a  green,  living 
tree. 


Jiotani^tng  from  a  Country  Porcfj        151 

There  are  wild  roses  everywhere  in  the  early 
summer,  pink  petaled  allurements  with  a  sweeter 
charm  than  any  hothouse  product  can  possess. 
There's  the  wild  potato  vine,  with  its  great  white 
blossoms  like  moonflowers,  on  vines  like  trailing 
sweet-potato  plants.  Wild  grape  vines  festoon  the 
fences  or  climb  into  the  indulgent  tree  tops,  while 
the  Virginia  creeper  aspires  to  the  tops  of  the  tall 
pines.  There's  a  little  vine  here  that  I  have  never 
seen  elsewhere  than  in  Virginia — the  cigar-plant, 
so  called  because  of  its  blossoms,  long  and  round 
and  shaped  like  toy  cigars,  with  flaming  tips. 
The  foliage  is  like  that  of  the  cypress  vine,  very 
delicate  and  graceful. 

As  I  sit  here  on  the  porch  and  use  my  field  glasses, 
I  can  distinguish  many  varieties  of  wild  flowers  by 
the  roadside  and  fringing  the  lake.  In  the  wet, 
marshy  ground  by  the  water,  the  joe-pye  weed 
stands,  with  its  dark  lavender  sprays  of  bloom,  or 
in  handsome  stalks  sometimes  six  or  eight  feet 
high.  The  ironweed  beside  it  has  a  color  some 
thing  like  it,  but  more  rusty  and  subdued  in  tone. 
There  is  the  sumach  with  its  wine-dark  spikes  and 
rich  foliage  by  the  road.  The  open  spaces  that 
early  in  June  were  white  with  large-eyed  daisies, 
and  pink  with  wild  roses,  now  show  the  goldenrod 


152  Jftom  a  g>outf)ern 


shining  in  the  sun.  The  goldenrod  loves  the  sun 
light  and  reflects  it. 

The  big  white  flowers  of  the  wild  cotton  plant 
are  in  bloom  beside  the  road,  stately  and  tall. 
A  blue  field  that  I  see  in  the  distance  is  a  mass  of 
chicory,  with  its  blossoms  like  cornflowers,  bravely 
blue.  I  have  seen  many  a  vacant  field  and  some 
city  lots  here  filled  with  it.  People  who  have  lived 
here  for  years  tell  me  that  the  chicory  is  a  new 
comer  here,  that  it  was  not  seen  even  fifteen  years 
ago.  They  say  that  it  is  crowding  out  the  daisies, 
but  I  don't  notice  any  lack  of  daisies  in  their 
time. 

As  Mose  came  back  from  taking  the  cow  to  pas 
ture  this  morning  he  brought  me  a  handful  of  wild 
flowers,  picked  with  short  stems.  Why  do  men  al 
ways  pick  flowers  with  such  stubby  stems?  Mose 
stood  beside  me  as  I  ran  over  the  names,  to  give 
me  information  I  might  need. 

There  was  a  spray  of  jewel  weed,  with  its  pen 
dent  lovely  flowers  like  lavallieres.  There  was 
cassia,  with  its  foliage  like  that  of  a  sensitive  plant, 
and  its  leguminous  flowers,  that  grow  in  such 
abundance  by  the  wayside. 

"This  cassia  is  lovely,  Mose,"  I  remarked. 

"  Naw'm,  dat  ain't  casher,"  Mose  smiled.  "  Dat's 


$tatam?tng  from  a  Country  $orcf)        153 

Bob  White  Pea.  Some  folks  calls  hit  Partridge 
Pea,  but  I  ain't  never  heerd  it  called  casher. " 

"That's  what  a  botanist  told  me  it  was,  but  I 
think  Bob  White  Pea  is  much  prettier,'*  I  an 
swered.  "And  what  is  this  leaf?" 

"  Dat's  skunk  cabbage, "  he  informed  me. 

"Here  is  Queen  Anne's  lace,"  I  cried,  holding 
up  a  spray  of  cobweb  texture.  "I  do  think  it's 
the  prettiest  wild  flower  that  grows,  except  the 
buffalo  clover,  in  Texas.  You  should  see  a  field 
of  buffalo  clover,  or  'blue  bonnet'  in  a  Texas  spring, 
with  its  heavenly  blue  color  just  touched  with 
white  and  scarlet!  But  this  is  lovely,  too." 

"  Yas'm,  hit  is  pretty,"  he  said,  turning  his  old 
hat  around  on  one  forefinger.  "But  us  colored 
folks  calls  hit  wild  carrot." 

"And  here's  the  butterfly- weed, "  I  exclaimed  in 
delight,  lifting  a  cluster  of  rich  burnt-orange 
flowers. 

Mose  chuckled.  "You  sho'  is  got  fancy  names 
fo'  deshere  weeds!  Dat's  jes'  old-fashioned  chig- 
ger-plant.  Dey  calls  hit  dat  because  de  chiggers 
stays  on  hit  so  much." 

"Other  folks  call  it  butterfly- weed  because  the 
butterflies  cluster  round  it  to  get  its  sweetness," 
I  argued.  But  Mose  shook  his  head. 


154  Jfrom  a  ^outfjern 


''Here's  the  trumpet  vine,  "  I  continued,  gloating 
over  the  rich  red  bugles  of  bloom.  "I'm  so  glad 
you  brought  me  this.  I  love  it.  " 

"Yas'm,"  Mose  called  back  as  he  departed 
towards  the  garden.  "Only  dat  ain't  de  right 
name  fo'  hit.  Us  colored  folks  calls  hit  cow-itch.  " 

Uninterrupted  by  contradiction,  I  examined  the 
other  treasures  Mose  had  brought  me.  There  was 
a  stalk  of  pepper  grass,  tall,  sprangly  with  slender 
branches  and  tiny  pungent  pods.  I  munched  it 
delightedly,  remembering  how  I  used  to  love  it  in 
my  childhood.  And  now  I  love  it,  not  for  its 
own  sake,  but  because  that  child  was  fond  of  it. 
My  canary  used  to  love  it,  too.  There  was  a 
spray  of  wild  fern  in  the  bunch,  and  I  could  close 
my  eyes  and  see  the  dim  woods,  moist  and  un- 
trampled,  with  wild  ferns  growing  everywhere. 

After  awhile  the  Professor  came  up  the  hill, 
bringing  me  an  armful  of  Queen  Anne's  lace  for  the 
big  bowl  on  the  porch,  and  a  wee  bird.-nest  that  he 
had  found  in  the  grass  beneath  a  tree  by  the  path. 
I  held  the  cluster  of  Queen  Anne's  lace  up  to  the 
light  and  looked  at  its  exquisiteness.  It  is  like  a 
snowflake  seen  through  a  microscope,  with  its 
unimaginable  delicacy  of  form,  so  fragile  it  seems 
that  a  breath  would  destroy  it,  yet  lasting  through 


JSotani^tng  from  a  Country  J)ord)        155 

wind  and  rain  and  sun  by  the  road  for  days.  It 
is  like  fairy-filagree,  like  lace  the  Little  People 
make  out  of  moonbeams  for  their  queen  to  wear. 
Here  on  the  same  stem  grows  a  cup-shaped  green 
thing  called  a  bird-nest.  When  I  see  a  spray  of 
Queen  Anne's  lace,  I  think  of  all  the  lanes  round 
about  where  I  go  on  my  morning  horseback  rides, 
and  see  the  abundance  of  its  beauty.  It  loves  the 
open  places  where  the  sun  shines  freely.  Usually 
it  is  white,  but  sometimes  I  find  blossoms  that  are 
delicate  green,  and  sometimes  a  pinkish  lavender, 
but  it  is  always  exquisite  in  its  fragility. 

As  I  ride  along  the  country  roads  and  study  the 
wild  flowers,  I  am  impressed  by  the  prevalence  of 
two  colors,  yellow  and  purple.  There  is  much 
yellow,  of  all  shades  imaginable.  The  golden- 
rod,  which  begins  to  bloom  in  July,  is  everywhere, 
showing  in  many  varieties  that  give  me  unceasing 
pleasure.  There  are  sunflowers  growing  in  fence 
corners  and  along  the  roads,  some  giant  in  size, 
others  mere  babies,  with  all  sizes  in  between. 
Cassia  is  abundant.  There  is  blackeyed  Susan, 
with  all  her  country  cousins  of  different  features 
and  tints  of  complexion,  but  showing  a  family  re 
semblance.  There's  the  wild  snapdragon  with  its 
yellow  flowers.  The  butterfly- weed  is  rich  orange 


156  Jfrom  a  gxwtfjern  $orcf) 

and  yellow,  with  butterflies  of  its  own  color  flitting 
above  it. 

There  are  many  flowers  in  purple  and  lavender 
shades,  as  well,  some  which  I  know,  and  some 
of  which  I  am  ignorant.  There's  joe  pye  weed, 
splendid  in  its  stateliness  beside  the  swampy 
places,  and  milkweed  in  its  purple-red,  with  its 
juicy  leaves  that  exude  a  milky  substance  when 
they're  broken.  The  butterfly  pea  with  its  lav 
ender  bloom,  clinging  close  to  the  ground,  and 
the  desmodium  with  its  diaphanous  beauty  veiling 
the  spaces  in  the  woods  are  more  retiring.  The 
purple  thistle  grows  jauntily  in  the  fields,  and  there 
are  many  others  that  I  cannot  identify. 

I  have  been  trying  to  think  what  the  world 
would  be  like  were  there  no  flowers  in  it.  Dismal 
as  the  city  streets  are,  they  are  yet  brightened  by 
an  occasional  display  in  a  florist's  window,  or  by 
the  blossoms  in  some  flower- venders'  baskets, 
which  nourish  the  anaemic  soul  with  beauty.  But 
suppose  there  were  no  flowers  anywhere,  how 
dreadful  it  would  be!  I  dare  say  nature's  eco 
nomic  scheme  might  have  been  arranged  to  do 
without  flowers,  but  life  deprived  of  them  would 
be  of  appalling  barrenness.  Cotton,  for  instance, 
might  have  been  grown  from  roots,  instead 


JSotanijing  from  a  Country  ^orcf)        157 

of  seeds,  but  the  lovely  hibiscus-like  blooms  add  a 
grace  to  the  utilitarian  field  that  language  cannot 
measure.  Those  petals  of  pinkness  so  softly  touched 
with  pearl,  those  tip- til  ted  blossoms  a-glisten  with 
dew,  last  only  a  day,  but  life  is  inestimably  richer 
for  them.  Each  rosy  flower  asway  in  the  sun,  each 
blossoming  vine  that  touches  with  grace  man's 
clumsy  workmanship,  adds  something  finer  than 
monetary  value  to  the  world.  A  spray  of  mignon 
ette  can  bring  back  holiest  associations,  and  there's 
a  gospel  in  each  wayside  flowering  weed. 

Walking  in  the  city  is  lonesome  because  there 
are  no  flowers  growing  by  the  way.  You  see  no 
live  thing  except  dogs  that  look  either  snobbish  or 
humiliated  because  of  their  muzzles,  and  people 
who  are  not  folksy  as  in  the  country.  In  the 
country,  every  road  is  friendly  with  foliage  and 
flowers,  and  each  little  bypath  is  like  a  confidential 
chat.  A  rabbit  runs  across  the  road  in  front  of 
you,  a  turtle  waddles  along,  the  birds  salute  you 
from  every  tree,  and  the  squirrels  chatter  at  you, 
while  the  flowers  nod  silently  to  you  on  every  hand. 
People  that  pass  you  speak  to  you,  even  if  they 
never  saw  you  before.  But  if  you  try  speaking  to 
strangers  in  the  city,  you're  liable  to  be  arrested. 
It's  the  flowers  that  make  all  the  difference ! 


VI 

A    SOUTHERN    EXPOSURE 

A  PORCH  has  a  hospitable  soul.  It  welcomes 
guests  of  all  degrees  in  a  more  cordial  manner  than 
the  inside  of  a  house  ever  knows.  A  porch  comes 
halfway  to  meet  a  guest,  with  outstretched  hands, 
and  bids  him  a  lingering  good-by  when  he  must  go. 
A  shy  young  man  once  told  me  that  he  never  made 
calls  except  in  summer  when  his  friends  were  sit 
ting  out  on  their  verandas,  and  he  could  drop  in 
on  them  as  if  unpremeditatedly,  because  he  was  ill 
at  ease  in  other  people's  houses.  Parlors  gave  him 
a  social  chill. 

It  is  true  that  to  ring  a  strepitant  doorbell  or 
clang  a  brazen  knocker,  then  stand  in  waiting  till  a 
door  is  grudgingly  opened,  takes  the  first  pleasure 
out  of  a  call.  To  pass  one's  card  to  a  hostile 
servitor,  or  confide  one's  name  to  a  supercilious 
telephone  operator,  is  to  suffer  an  indignity  dis 
proportionate  to  the  joy  of  the  visit.  Door-men 
in  the  city  seem  to  me  as  a  class  paranoiacs  with 


&  £>outljern  exposure  159 

delusions  of  grandeur,  yet  for  all  that,  we  are 
under  their  power. 

But  to  stroll  past  the  house  of  a  friend,  to  see 
him  sitting  at  leisure  on  his  porch,  obviously  un 
employed,  is  a  different  matter.  One  knows  then 
that  a  chance  call  will  not  inconvenience  him. 
On  the  contrary,  if  he  is  not  visibly  porching,  he 
may  be  in  the  bathtub,  or  spanking  his  small  boy, 
or  engaged  in  some  other  activity  which  he'd 
dislike  to  have  interrupted.  And  it  robs  a  visit  of 
all  spontaneity  and  joy  to  arrange  it  beforehand 
and  feel  oneself  bound  to  it,  when  the  host  may  be 
violently  wishing  himself  elsewhere.  Calling  has 
fallen  into  decay  in  cities,  because  there  are  no 
verandas.  Friendship  is  largely  dependent  upon 
porches. 

It  is  much  easier  to  entertain  a  person  on  a  porch 
than  elsewhere.  If  his  thoughts  stutter,  the  im 
pediment  in  his  conversation  is  mitigated  by  the 
things  he  sees  about  him.  He  may  notice  the  trans 
lucent  bod'ies  of  the  humming  birds  as  they  poise 
above  the  scarlet  sage,  or  see  the  mauve-blue  shad 
ows  on  the  hill  slope,  or  hear  the  polyphonic  murmur 
of  the  wind  among  the  pine  tops,  or  be  startled  by 
the  importunate  yelping  of  young  puppies  smitten 
with  some  transitory  pang.  Who  could  be  dumb 


160  Jfrom  a  £>autfjern 


when  a  baby  rabbit  lopes  up  and  halts  to  wash 
its  face  with  its  paws,  in  plain  view  by  the  hy 
drangeas  ?  Who  could  be  bored  or  boresome  when 
blue-tailed  lizards  whisk  under  his  feet  and  flash 
across  the  porch  to  lick  up  flies  with  lightning 
tongues  ?  It  is  only  inside  houses  that  time  seems 
long  and  guests  are  dull. 

The  outside  air  gives  a  fresh  fillip  to  the  brain, 
and  lubricates  the  tongue  without  the  disagreeable 
complications  of  alcoholic  intoxication.  And  of 
course,  as  anybody  knows,  proposals  should  be 
made  on  porches  in  the  moonlight,  —  when  there's 
just  enough  moon  to  turn  the  heart  but  not  to 
touch  the  brain,  —  and  with  some  colored  person  in 
the  distance  twanging  a  guitar  as  he  sings  some 
old  love  song.  There  should  preferably  be  a 
feathery  vine  of  some  sort  on  the  bright  side  of  the 
porch,  to  guarantee  the  proper  delicate  nuances  and 
innuendoes  of  moonlight.  Marriages  made  in 
heaven  are  all  arranged  for  on  porches  in  the 
moonlight.  Who  wishes  to  propose  or  be  pro 
posed  to  under  an  arc  light  or  beside  an  electrolier 
and  in  front  of  a  gas  log?  Parlors  are  the  real 
reason  for  the  decline  in  matrimony  and  the 
increase  in  divorce.  How  easy  to  quarrel  in  a 
room  with  a  shrewish  victrola  !  How  simple  to  be 


8  g>outf)ern  Exposure  161 

amiable  in  the  cool  moonlit  silences!  Decidedly, 
there  should  be  more  porches,  provided  by  the 
government,  if  necessary. 

I  fancy  porch  chairs  remember  the  persons  who 
sit  in  them,  and  when  they  are  alone  at  night  rock 
with  pride  or  protest  at  recalling  what  has  been 
said.  I've  heard  them  doing  so — when  they 
thought  us  all  asleep!  Some  night  I  shall  slip 
down  and  eavesdrop.  No  doubt  they  talk  de 
lightfully  until  dawn,  after  the  fashion  of  John 
Charteris  in  Beyond  Life,  uttering  wise  and  gay 
reflections  upon  life.  Maybe  those  chairs  continue 
conversations  from  where  they  were  broken  off, 
endlessly  rocking  in  the  listening  night. 

I  love  to  listen  to  conversation  untrammeled  by 
responsibility  for  joining  in.  That  is  more  pos 
sible  on  a  porch  than  in  a  house  in  the  glaring 
light.  If  there  are  several  persons  on  the  porch, 
all  tonguishly  inclined,  I  can  indulge  myself  in 
comfortable  silence.  I  can  enjoy  the  conversation, 
note  its  steady  stream,  and  stand  aside,  or  dabble 
my  feet  in  it  as  I  like,  without  plunging  into  the 
full  current.  Talk  is  everlastingly  interesting  to 
me, — if  it  makes  itself,  and  is  not  the  mechanical 
duty  conversation  that  one  produces  under  com 
pulsion.  I  like  even  stupid  talk  on  a  porch.  I 


162  jfrom  a  g>outjjern 


wonder  who  was  the  extraordinary  person  that 
invented  talk.  How  clever  of  him  or  her  —  I  wager 
it  was  a  her!  —  who  first  discovered  that  the  little 
pointed  organ  in  the  mouth  could  be  used  to  con 
vey  ideas  to  an  outsider!  Philologists  say  that 
man  was  differentiated  from  the  anthropoid  apes 
only  by  the  development  of  language,  and  con 
versely,  I  dare  say,  if  we  were  all  stricken  dumb,  we 
should  slide  back  into  baboonism.  Now,  however. 
we  know  how  to  put  our  talk  on  paper  and  send 
it  far  distances.  And  isn't  the  pen  merely  an  elong 
ated,  more  pointed,  metal  tongue?  So  perhaps 
we  are  safe,  after  all. 

As  I  was  saying  when  I  interrupted  myself,  I 
like  to  tilt  one  ear  toward  conversation  in  which  I 
am  not  required  to  join.  For  example,  the  other 
day,  several  women  were  on  the  porch  discuss 
ing  husbands.  They  were  guardedly  speaking  in 
general,  but  when  a  woman  discusses  husbands  in 
the  collective,  you  may  know  she's  speaking  about 
her  own,  past,  present,  future,  or  hoped-for. 
Hypothetical  husbands  are  like  lightning-rods, 
conveying  the  excess  electricity  in  the  atmosphere 
to  safe  common  ground. 

"How  like  a  husband!"  Mrs.  Little  had  said 
in  comment  on  some  incident. 


&  iboutfjern  Cxpogure  163 

"Husbands  are  such  foreigners!"  said  Mrs. 
Allison,  the  brown-eyed,  brown-haired  girl  who 
had  lately  come  up  as  a  bride  from  Louisiana. 
"When  you're  married,  you  think  you  know  the 
farthest  corners  of  their  minds,  and  then  you  keep 
on  discovering  that  you  don't  know  them  at  all, 
that  you  are  continually  apart  in  sympathy.  The 
marriage  certificate  isn't  always  a  naturalization 
paper." 

"And  the  discouraging  thing  is  that  you  never 
will  know  them,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips,  who  had 
recently  celebrated  her  silver  wedding. 

"That's  the  chief  comfort  to  my  mind, "  broke  in 
Mrs.  Adams,  briskly.  "What  you  don't  know 
won't  bother  you. " 

"They're  more  than  foreigners, — they're  enemy 
aliens,"  put  in  Mrs.  Simpson,  who  had  just  got 
a  divorce  on  the  ground  of  incompatability. 
"They're  always  trying  to  overturn  our  emotions, 
and  set  fire  to  our  peace  of  mind.  We  think  at 
first  we  can't  live  without  them,  and  then  we  find 
it's  impossible  to  live  with  them. " 

"The  worst  part  of  it  is  that  they're  spies!" 
said  Mrs.  Winthrop,  one  of  the  most  pampered 
wives  in  Virginia.  "They're  continually  finding 
out  our  faults — oh,  we  have  them,  of  course,  else 


164  Jfrom  a  £>outfjern  -porcfj 

why  should  we  be  attractive  enough  for  our  hus 
bands  to  marry  us  ? — and  blaming  them  on  women 
in  general.  'How  like  a  woman!'  they  say. 
They're  so  personally  impersonal.  Women  aren't 
like  that." 

"'How  like  a  husband!'"  I  murmured  in  be 
lated  echo,  but  I  was  unheeded, — at  least  my  sar 
casm  fell  unnoted. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?"  agreed  Mrs.  Simpson. 

"Men  cease  to  be  folks  when  they  be 
come  husbands,"  complained  the  brown-eyed 
bride. 

"Oh,  I  think  you're  all  wrong,"  put  in 
Mrs.  Denton.  "Husbands  are  ourselves.  We 
stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  against  the  world. 
We're  like  Siamese  twins,  and  it's  as  foolish 
to  make  cutting  remarks  about  your  husband 
as  to  hack  at  your  arm  or  slice  off  your 
ear." 

"I  always  did  pity  those  Siamese  creatures — 
deformities,  nothing  else!"  snapped  Mrs.  Simpson. 

Just  here,  I  heard  Tish,  busy  at  her  ironing  on 
the  back  porch,  singing  one  of  her  "ballets"  that 
seemed  to  me  to  have  a  bearing  on  the  subject,  so 
I  signalled  the  women  to  listen  to  Tish's  contribu 
tion  of  opinion. 


8  gboutfjern  exposure  165 

"When  boys  fust  go  acourtin', 

Dey  dress  up  so  fine. 
To  fool  all  de  pore  gals 

Is  all  dat  dey  design. 
Go  tittlin'  an'  tattlin' 

An'  tellin'  dem  lies 
To  keep  up  de  pore  gals 

Till  dey's  ready  to  die. 

When  gals  fust  get  married, 

Deir  pleasures  is  done, 
But  deir  grief  an'  deir  sorrows 

Is  scarcely  begun. 
Deir  chillun  to  bawl, 

Deir  husban's  to  scold, 
An'  den  deir  pretty  faces 

Gits  withered  an'  old. 

Oh,  when  I  was  single 

I  libed  at  my  ease, 
But  now  I  am  married, 

I  got  a  husban'  to  please! 
I'm  washin'  my  chillun 

An'  puttin'  dem  to  bed, 
Wid  my  husban'  a-scoldin'  me 

An'  wishin'  I  was  dead!  " 


"That's  more  like  the  situation,"  said  Mrs. 
Winthrop.  "And  anyhow,  Mrs.  Denton,  you 
speak  so  blithely  because  you've  been  married  a 
very  little  time.  It's  quite  evident  your  spouse 


i66  Jfrom  a 


hasn't  yet  scolded  you  for  overdrawing  your  bank 
account." 

"The  first  time  mine  did  that,  I  told  him  if  he'd 
take  care  to  keep  plenty  of  money  on  deposit  for 
me,  I'd  never  overdraw  it,"  said  Mrs.  Adam. 

"There,  I  see  my  husband  coming  for  me  in  the 
car,"  interrupted  the  bride.  "I  must  be  ready 
when  he  comes,  because  he  hates  being  kept 
waiting.  He  says  that's  his  chief  criticism  of 
women,  that  they  have  no  sense  of  the  value  of 
time." 

Even  one  husband,  I  find,  is  sufficient  to  break 
up  any  discussion  of  marriage. 

"There  are  no  model  husbands  any  more,  as 
there  aren't  any  more  good  servants,"  sighed  Mrs. 
Phillips. 

"Yes,  I  know  one,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Denton. 
'  '  Professor  Hopkins  is  the  only  specimen  of  model 
husband  now  existing  in  captivity.  He  married 
a  domestic  science  teacher,  but  he  has  to  get  up 
and  cook  breakfast  for  her  and  her  mother,  who 
lives  with  them.  I'm  told  he  serves  a  tray  to  each 
of  them  in  bed  before  he  dashes  off  to  his  eight 
o'clock  lecture." 

"Well,  I'd  be  a  man  or  a  mouse,  one!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Little. 


&  g>outf)ern  (Exposure  167 

But  the  husband  was  at  the  steps  by  now,  so 
the  conversation  was  abandoned. 

On  another  day,  I  heard  an  elderly  woman  giv 
ing  advice  to  a  young  widow  swathed  in  cr£pe. 

"Now,  Sara  Jane,  I  want  to  tell  you  that 
you're  doing  a  silly  thing  to  give  away  your  best 
clothes  just  because  your  husband  has  died. 
Don't  you  do  it !  You  keep  those  clothes  a  while, 
and  you'll  be  surprised  to  see  how  soon  they'll 
look  attractive  to  you  again.  I  know  what  I'm 
talking  about,  for  haven't  I  been  married  five 
times  and  been  a  widow  four?" 

"  But  I  don't  feel  ri-ight  in  anything  but  black !' ' 
sniffled  the  widow  into  the  folds  of  an  inkish- 
bordered  kerchief. 

"Those  feelings  will  soon  pass.  The  first  time 
my  husband  died  I  put  on  the  longest  and  crepiest 
veil  I  could  find,  and  I  bent  myself  almost  double 
to  the  ground  in  weeping.  I  couldn't  find  clothes 
black  enough  or  heavy  enough  to  suit  me — me, 
who'd  been  the  gayest  girl  in  two  counties!  My 
mother  was  wise,  because  she  said  to  me,  'The  cow 
that  bawls  loudest  for  her  calf  is  soonest  com 
forted.'  Well,  I'm  here  to  tell  you  it's  so. " 

"I'tt  never  be  comforted!" 

"Yes,  you  will,  too!    Well,  my  family  carried 


i68  Jfrom  a 


me  to  White  Sulphur  Springs  for  the  summer,  to 
improve  my  health  and  distract  my  mind.  Pretty 
soon  I  quit  crying  long  enough  to  see  other  girls 
not  any  younger  than  I  was  and  not  half  as  pretty 
and  come-hithery  as  I  was  before  my  crepe  days, 
dressed  in  their  light  dresses  and  having  such  a 
good  time  with  the  young  men.  There  I  was, 
muffled  to  my  eyes  in  cr£pe!" 

"  Surely  you  didn't  want  to  flirt  at  such  a  time!  " 
came  reproachful  accents  from  the  veil. 

"Sure  I  did!  The  catechism  says  what  man's 
first  duty  is,  but  forgets  to  mention  woman's, 
which  is  to  flirt.  How  else  is  man  to  be  kept  in 
proper  subjection?  " 

"Well,  I  looked  around  for  something  to  lighten 
my  grief,  and  I  didn't  have  a  thing.  I'd  given 
away  all  my  white  dresses  and  my  girly  clothes, 
and  there  I  was,  with  nothing  but  cr6pe  to  flaunt 
in  the  face  of  all  those  good-looking  young  men. 
But  I  will  say  for  myself  that  I  could  always  do 
more  with  cre"pe  than  some  folks  could  with  pink 
ball-dresses.  Well,  I  made  up  my  mind  right  then 
and  there  that  the  next  time  my  husband  died 
I'd  keep  my  head  and  my  clothes.  And  I  did." 

"But  cr£pe  is  a  state  of  mind  —  cre"pe  is  sym 
bolic  faithfulness  to  your  true  love." 


3  £>outi)ern  (Exposure  169 

"Symbolic  fiddlesticks!  If  you  wear  cre"pe  too 
long  it  goes  to  your  brain.  You  see  some  women 
here  in  the  South  that  seem  ashamed  to  take  off 
their  mourning  even  to  go  to  bed,  when  they'd 
faint  with  horror  if  they  thought  their  worthless 
husbands  stood  any  chance  to  come  alive  again. 
I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  some  of  them  don't 
wear  black  nighties,  or  cr£pe-bordered  pajamas. 
Cr£pe  is  hideous  looking  and  any  woman  who 
wears  it  a  day  longer  than  she  naturally  has  to  is 
taking  her  second  chances  in  her  own  hand,  I  tell 
you.  You'd  better  listen  to  inspired  words  from 
one  who  has  been  there  and  knows." 

"Will — you  go  shopping  with  me  to-morrow?" 
asked  the  widow. 

The  other  afternoon  a  group  of  men  and  women 
were  here.  The  Doctor  and  Lucia  had  just  come 
in  from  seeing  a  country  patient.  She  had  a  little 
new  local  color  in  the  shape  of  a  few  golden  freckles 
on  her  nose,  though  her  eyes  were  less  lustrous 
than  usual.  Lucia's  eyes  seem  to  fade  or  brighten 
with  her  feelings  and  serve  me  as  a  sort  of  barom 
eter  of  her  emotions.  The  Doctor  was  as  blithe 
as  usual,  going  through  a  sort  of  mental  ^attitudin 
izing  for  the  benefit  of  observers,  chiefly  Lucia. 
His  emotional  gymnastic  don't  move  me  any  more, 


170  Jfrom  a  g>outfjern 


because  I  feel  they're  only  verbal  trapeze  per 
formances. 

Carl  Hackett  was  here,  too.  He's  just  written 
a  book,  an  orgy  of  words.  Carl  Hackett  thinks 
himself  a  wild  person,  but  in  action  he  is  very 
conventional.  He  dissipates  only  with  his  intel 
lect.  He's  one  of  those  mind-proud  persons,  a 
bookster,  a  sort  of  verbal  publisher's  dummy,  a 
walking  blurb,  full  of  sound  and  fury,  but  signify 
ing  nothing.  He  doesn't  really  injure  the  mentale 
of  any  reader,  though  he'd  be  deeply  grieved  if  he 
knew  how  harmless  he  is. 

This  afternoon  he  was  affecting  brave  indiffer 
ence  under  a  heavy  barrage  from  the  eyes  of  several 
girls  still  in  their  teens.  Carl  himself  is  approach 
ing  thirty.  I  even  saw  a  flicker  of  interest  in  the 
face  of  Miss  Green,  a  spinster  of  the  sore  and  yellow 
type,  who  is  retreating  from  forty,  but  reluctantly 
and  with  backward-gazing  eyes. 

"I've  been  telling  Miss  Lucia  she  should  write 
books,"  said  Carl. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  do  that,"  protested  Lucia.  "I 
think  too  much  of  my  thoughts  for  that.  Thoughts 
are  such  delicate  things,  coming  up  from  nowhere, 
and  vanishing  like  wraiths  while  you  gaze  at  them. 
They  flit  past  you  like  joyous  birds,  like  painted 


&  ^outfjern  exposure  171 

butterflies.  Shall  I  kill  them  with  pins  to  put 
them  between  the  covers  of  a  book?  No — I'd 
rather  let  them  go  forever  wild  and  free ! ' ' 

Carl  said,  ' '  I  sometimes  think  I  must  stop  writ 
ing  because  books  are  so  revealing.  You  can't 
write  a  page  without  putting  yourself  into  it. 
People  will  see  your  inner  soul." 

"That  would  be  embarrassing  for  some  people," 
murmured  the  Doctor  under  his  breath.  "But 
you  should  have  the  cowardice  of  your  convictions. " 

"I  don't  think  all  books  represent  the  author," 
said  the  Professor.  "Sometimes  a  book  only 
shows  what  the  author  thinks  he  is.  Books  are 
like  children.  A  child  should  be  his  parent's  better 
self,  his  embodied  graces  of  soul  and  body,  lacking 
the  qualities  that  mar  him — his  visible  angel, 
as  it  were,  sent  forth  to  the  world  to  represent 
him.  Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  this  were  really 
true,  and  again  I  have  known  instances  where  the 
opposite  appeared  to  be  the  case." 

"Yes!"  I  murmured. 

"Likewise,  it  seems  to  me  a  book  should  be 
a  writer's  real  self,  his  envolumed  heart,  his  per 
manently  bound  impulses  of  love  and  beauty  and 
goodness.  Yet  as  there  are  spoiled  and  wayward 
children,  so  there  are  books  that  misrepresent  the 


172  Jfrom  a  gxmt&ern 


writers,  that  disgust  us  when  they  come  into  our 
homes,  that  upset  our  mental  furniture,  that 
smirch  our  thoughts  and  rouse  all  our  antagonism. 
Books  that  cannot  conduct  themselves  properly 
should  be  shut  up  in  dark  libraries  till  they  learn 
how  to  behave.  Maybe  they  are  atavistic  out 
breaks,  and  interpret  past  generations  of  the 
writers." 

"Some  people  don't  realize  life  at  all,  and  hence 
cannot  interpret  it,"  I  suggested.  "They  see  life 
only  as  a  dream,  and  a  dream  mirrored  on  print 
paper  is  rather  obscured." 

Carl  said  something  that  I  didn't  hear  plainly, 
because  my  mind  had  started  on  a  little  side-trip 
of  its  own.  So  I  left  the  thistle-down  laughter  of 
the  young  girls  to  the  ears  of  Carl,  for  whom  it 
was  intended.  My  mind  likes  to  go  galumphing 
over  creation,  and  I  find  that  the  time  I  can  best 
spare  for  such  excursions  is  when  callers  are  on  the 
porch.  My  brain  is  the  sort  that  positively  will 
not  stand  hitched  long  at  a  time,  and  the  hobbles  of 
duty  conversation  are  so  irksome  that  they  are 
quickly  kicked  off,  and  my  fancy  goes  galloping 
over  many  a  flower-strewn  plain.  I  have  a  pro 
found  pity  for  such  people  as  keep  their  minds  in 
stalls  all  the  time,  that  never  let  them  know  the 


8  gxmtfjern  <£xpogure  173 

delight  of  wide,  unreined  racing.  Some  people 
there  are,  too,  I  dare  say,  who  haven't  minds  of 
their  own  to  ride  on,  and  so  they  have  to  hire 
somebody  else's  jitney  brains  to  take  an  airing  in. 
Jitneys  are  useful,  but  they  have  grave  limitations. 
They  cannot  soar  to  meet  the  stars,  they  cannot 
plunge  into  the  ocean-depths,  but  must  travel  in 
fixed  paths,  at  so  much  a  trip. 

When  children  are  here  with  other  guests,  I 
usually  wander  off  to  the  far  end  of  the  porch  with 
them,  to  show  them  my  pet  hornets,  or  to  watch 
the  tree  lizards,  or  to  play  with  the  puppies.  I 
love  to  hear  children  talk.  A  little  girl  was  here 
the  other  day,  telling  me  of  her  Sunday-school. 
She  and  her  small  brother  described  the  services  of 
the  primary  class,  where  they  have  certain  solemn 
observances,  such  as  placing  all  the  feet  to  match  a 
certain  line  on  the  carpet,  and  singing  in  concert, 
11  Oh,  little  feet  be  careful!"  They  told  me  of  the 
birthday  offering,  the  deposit  in  the  collection  box 
of  pennies  to  the  number  of  years  of  the  birth 
day  ed  member.  One  little  girl,  whether  moved  by 
prophetic  reticence  concerning  census  returns,  or 
by  a  desire  to  withhold  part  of  the  contribution  for 
private  use,  put  in  only  six  cents  last  Sunday. 


174  Jfrom  a  gxmtfjern 


"And  she  knows  she's  seven!"  was  the  small 
boy's  disgusted  comment. 

"Tell  me  something  more  about  this  primary 
class.  It  interests  me,"  I  suggested. 

"Well,  th'other  Sunday  the  teacher  told  us  all 
about  Samuel  'n'  Eli.  Eli  was  the  preacher  that 
stayed  at  the  church  an'  ran  things.  His  boys 
was  all  growed  up  an'  so  he  adopted  a  little  boy 
named  Samuel  to  live  with  him  an'  wait  on  him. 
Eli  was  awful  old  an'  couldn't  get  about  much, 
so  Samuel  waited  on  him  real  nice.  He  did  every 
thing  for  Eli,  Samuel  did.  He  ran  errands  for 
him,  'n'  he  washed  the  dishes,  'n'  ran  the  victrola 
for  EH  when  he  wanted  music,  'n'  cranked  the 
automobile,  'n'  did  everything  Eli  ast  him  to!  " 

A  tiny  girl  who  had  listened  to  the  conversation 
reverted  to  the  subject  of  birthdays,  that  held  more 
interest  for  her  than  temple  services. 

"I  had  a  birthday  last  week,"  she  piped  in. 
*  '  What  do  you  think  ?  I  went  to  bed  f  '  ee  years  old 
an'  I  waked  up  fo'  !  " 

She  looked  so  bewitching  as  she  said  this  that  I 
could  not  resist  snatching  her  to  me,  whereat  she 
snuggled  close  to  me  on  the  couch  and  asked, 
"Where's  your  little  girl?  " 

"I  haven't  any,"  I  confessed  regretfully. 


8  g>outJjern  (Exposure  175 

"Haven't  got  any  little  girl  at  all?"  she  ques 
tioned  in  surprise. 

"No.     I'm  sorry." 

"Where's  your  little  boy?" 

"I  haven't  got  any  little  boy,  either,"  I  was 
forced  to  admit. 

She  surveyed  me  pityingly  for  a  moment,  then 
asked,  "Well,  what  have  you  got?" 

I  considered,  the  while  I  mentally  enumerated 
my  blessings. 

"  Nothing  that  takes  the  place  of  little  girls  and 
boys,"  I  said,  kissing  her  yellow  curls. 

She  gave  me  a  quick,  whimsical  little  hug,  and 
was  off  to  chase  a  puppy  round  the  corner. 

The  seven-year-old  boy  remained  behind  to  tell 
me  of  a  baseball  game  he  had  attended,  at  which  a 
famous  pitcher  had  pitched. 

"I  certainly  do  admire  that  man,"  he  said. 
"When  I  see  him  it  makes  me  feel  all  wiggly  inside 
of  me." 

"I  understand,"  I  said,  nodding. 

"Did  you  ever  know  anybody  that  made  your 
heart  wiggle?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  heaps  of  times." 

"It's  like  being  scared  an'  glad  all  at  the  same 
time,"  he  philosophized.  "Funny  how  things 


176  Jfrom  a  ^outftern 


that  don't  touch  you  can  make  you  feel  dif-frent, 
isn't  it?  Now,  when  you're  mad,  you  get  kinder 
hot  all  over,  even  if  it's  a  cold  day." 

He  broke  off  with  a  giggle.  "I  saw  a  girl  the 
other  day  that  sure  was  good  'n'  mad!" 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"Well,  she's  Nancy  Riley,  that  lives  next  door. 
She's  eight  years  old,  an'  she's  a  hot  tamale,  she  is! 
Th'  other  day  her  mother  spanked  her  for  some 
thing  she'd  done,  an'  I  was  in  our  back  yard  an' 
heard  her  yellin',  reg'lar  war-whoops.  Nancy, 
she  sure  is  some  yeller  when  she's  mad." 

"What  did  she  do  when  she  stopped  yelling?" 

"She  come  out  behind  the  garage  where  I  was, 
an'  she  stomped  her  foot,  an'  she  gritted  her  teeth, 
an'  she  hollered  at  her  mother  —  but  not  loud 
'nough  for  her  to  hear.  She  said,  "I  hate  you  !  I 
stomp  on  you!  I  spit  on  you!  I  wish  you  was 
dead,  an'  I  wish  you  was  buried,  an'  I  wish  I  was 
stompin'  on  your  grave!" 

"Whew!"  I  commented. 

I  recalled  what  Carl  Hackett  had  said  the  other 
day,  that  children  are  the  only  persons  that  should 
write  books,  for  they  feel  most  keenly.  When  we 
are  children  we  have  poignant  emotions,  but  lack 
language  to  express  them.  And  when  we're  older, 


&  g>outfjern  exposure  177 

we  have  plenty  of  words  but  are  bankrupt  of  emo 
tions.  It's  like  the  man  who  said  when  he  was  a 
small  boy  he  longed  for  a  dollar  to  buy  all  the  gum- 
drops  he  could  eat.  When  he  was  a  man,  he  had 
the  dollars,  but  didn't  care  for  gum-drops. 

"That  was  sad,  of  course,"  I  had  commented 
at  the  time.  "  Unless  he  had  learned  to  care  for 
substitutes." 

"  I  hate  substitutes,"  Sara  Crenshaw  had  broken 
in.  "If  I  can't  have  what  I  want  I'd  rather  go 
without  than  take  a  substitute." 

"That's  just  one  of  your  mental  bed-sores," 
Helen  Anderson  had  put  in.  "It  came  from  your 
marketing  while  the  war  was  on  Anyhow,  life  is 
just  a  series  of  substitutes,  some  of  them  better  for 
us  than  the  things  we  want." 

A  boy  of  five  came  to  see  me  recently,  and  talked 
with  me  while  his  mother  enjoyed  other  conver 
sation. 

"Don't  you  jes'  nachelly  hate  being  bathed?" 
he  questioned  me. 

"No,"  I  answered,  "though  at  times  I  regret 
the  time  it  takes.  You  haven't  really  anything 
to  show  for  it,  you  know." 

"I   show  the  difference,"   he   asserted.     "The 


1  78  Jfrom  a  g>outijent 


worst  is  ears,"  he  went  on.  "People  gouge  so, 
you  see.  But  mother  thought  up  a  game  that 
makes  it  go  easier.  We  pretend  that  each  ear  is  a 
robber  cave  that  we've  got  to  explore.  An'  clean 
ing  finger-nails  was  horrid  till  she  got  to  letting  me 
name  each  one  for  some  person  I'm  int'rested  in, 
an'  so  I  stand  it  a  lot  better." 

"Who  are  your  finger-nails?"  I  queried. 

"President  Wilson  and  Admiral  Foch  are  the 
thumbs,  an'  of  course  they've  got  to  be  kep'  clean/' 
he  informed  me. 

"Certainly  I  can  see  that.  And  who  are  the 
others?" 

"There's  Papa  Joffre,  an'  Billy  Sunday,  an* 
Uncle  Remus  —  he  isn't  real,  you  know,  but  he 
seems  more  alive  than  some  folks  I  know.  They're 
on  the  right  hand,  an'  the  littlest  finger  is  my 
Sunday-school  teacher.  I  keep  her  awful  clean, 
because  she's  so  sweet  an'  pretty." 

"And  the  left?" 

"The  left—  there's  Ty  Cobb,  an'  General  Persh- 
ing,  an'  Charlie  Chaplin." 

"And  --  ?" 

"The  littlest  finger  there  is  the  little  girl  that 
lives  across  the  street."  He  flushed  a  bit,  but  held 
his  head  up  bravely,  then  looked  down  with 


179 


tenderness   at   the  small   finger  —  which    at    that 
moment  was  not  immaculate. 

1  'That's  delightful,"  I  commented  heartily.  "I 
must  remember  that  scheme  when  I  have  any 
thing  I  dread  doing." 

I'm  always  glad  when  plain  country  ^people 
come  to  see  us.  They  have  so  much  real  know 
ledge,  "mother  wisdom,"  not  gained  second 
hand  from  books,  but  learned  from  the  earth  and 
the  air  and  the  sky.  Real  contact  with  the  soil  has 
given  them  earth's  secret  knowledge,  and  they 
have,  too,  a  quiet  humor  that  is  genial,  with  no 
sting. 

The  other  day  a  farmer  and  his  wife  dropped  in 
as  they  were  on  the  way  home  from  town,  and 
they  sat  upon  the  porch  an  hour  or  so.  She  told 
us  of  the  canning  and  preserving  she  had  done,  of 
the  vegetables  she  had  dried,  and  the  jelly  she  had 
made,  till  I  was  hungry  for  some  of  her  water 
melon  rind  preserves  and  her  wild  grape  jelly. 
Her  rusty  hands  held  themselves  rather  stiffly 
in  her  lap,  and  she  said  with  an  apologetic  laugh, 
"It  don't  seem  natural  for  me  to  be  havin'  my 
hands  idle.  I  usually  am  sewing  with  a  red-hot 
needle  and  a  burning  thread  what  time  I'm  resting. 


i8o  Jfrom  a 


There's  so  much  to  be  done  for  folks  —  poor  folks 
and  children,  and  so  on  —  that  I  feel  like  a  body 
ought  to  be  busy  all  the  time." 

I  felt  an  impulse  to  kiss  those  work-scarred 
hands,  to  let  tears  fall  on  them,  for  they  seemed 
beautiful  to  me. 

"You  should  let  other  people  do  things  for 
you,  too,"  I  murmured,  whereat  her  husband 
broke  in,  "That's  what  I'm  always  telling  her. 
She'd  disfurnish  herself  or  work  herself  to  death 
for  a  nigger  she  never  saw  before.  And  she  won't 
buy  herself  proper  clothes,  because  she  thinks  other 
folks  need  them  worse." 

"Now,  Lemuel,  you  know  I've  got  a  beautiful 
new  dress,"  she  protested. 

"Yes,  but  I  had  to  get  it  for  you!"  he  threw  at 
her. 

Turning  to  me  with  a  boyish  grin,  his  grizzly 
moustache  twitching  delightedly,  he  explained: 
"She  wouldn't  get  a  new  dress,  so  I  picked  the 
goods  out  for  her  and  bought  it  without  sayin' 
anything.  I  took  it  to  a  dress  carpenter  and  told 
her  to  put  a  firm  foundation  under  it  so  it  would 
be  solid  and  substantial.  She  put  in  an  under 
pinning  of  some  sort,  then  she  clapboarded  it,  and 
shingled  it  with  some  whimmydiddly  trimmin'. 


&  £>outfjern  (Exposure  181 

I  gave  her  orders  to  put  the  nails  in  firm,  so's  the 
dress  wouldn't  warp  and  come  apart.  It's  a  good- 
looking  structure,  too,"  he  concluded  pridefully. 

"I'm  sure  of  it!"  I  said,  twinkling  my  eyes  at 
his  wife. 

The  talk  drifted  round  to  a  wrong  that  a  neigh 
bor  had  done  the  couple,  one  of  their  "no-relations 
that  the  children  call  uncle"  as  the  man  explained. 

"What  did  you  do?"  I  asked  the  woman. 

"Why,  I  just  forgave  him,"  she  answered  simply. 

"How  could  you?"  someone  asked. 

She  looked  past  the  pine  trees  to  the  blue  sky  a 
moment  before  she  answered.  "Folks  talk  about 
forgiving  as  being  a  Christian  duty  that's  dis 
agreeable,  that  most  people  dodge.  I've  come  to 
believe  that  forgivin'  folks  is  a  luxury,  a  real  treat 
that  we  too  often  deny  ourselves.  We  hold  a 
grudge  sometimes,  but  if  we  only  sensed  it  right, 
there's  nothing  more  satisfying  than  to  forgive 
somebody.  And  Mr.  Black  is  a  good  man.  I 
don't  reckon  many  folks  has  a  chance  to  forgive 
as  good  a  man  as  he  is." 

After  the  couple  had  gone,  I  sat  thinking  of 
what  the  woman  had  said.  I  longed  to  forgive 
somebody  at  that  moment,  to  enjoy  the  resultant 
soul-luxury,  but  I  couldn't  think  of  any  one  to  for- 


182  Jfrom  a  ^outfjern 


give.  I  felt  vexed  for  the  moment  that  I  hadn't 
any  wrongs  to  wipe  off  with  a  gesture  of  the  soul  and 
I  looked  forward  hopefully  to  a  time  when  some 
body  would  injure  me  so  that  I  might  forgive  him. 

Then  I  thought  of  the  Doctor.  I  might  forgive 
him  for  killing  Nip!  I  turned  the  thought  over 
and  round  in  my  mind  for  a  while,  and  finally 
decided  that  nobody  deserved  to  be  forgiven  for 
an  offense  like  killing  a  pet  frog,  even  in  accident. 
What  would  society  come  to  if  people  went  around 
forgiving  things  like  that?  No,  I  wouldn't  do  it! 

Mrs.  Matthews  came  in  for  a  little  while,  and  I 
had  her  and  the  porch  to  myself.  Her  presence 
soothes  me  like  a  cool  hand  laid  on  the  forehead, 
like  a  draught  of  water  from  a  mountain  spring, 
like  the  Amen  of  a  prayer  that  is  really  a  prayer. 
There's  always  a  look  of  peace  upon  her  face  so 
that  when  I  see  her  I  realize  how  nervous  and 
unreposeful  most  women  are. 

"And  whose  woes  have  you  been  assuaging 
now?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  I  never  do  anything,"  she  protested. 
"I  only  listen.  Sometimes  I  feel  that  I'm  nothing 
but  an  ear  —  an  auricular  funnel  into  which  people 
pour  their  troubles." 

'  '  Listening  is  the  rarest  grace  in  the  world,  dear 


183 


lady.  Ears  are  uncommon,  but  the  earth  is  full  of 
tongues.  The  reason  lots  of  folks  never  think  is 
because  they're  forever  talking,  yet  we  should 
listen  twice  as  much  as  we  talk  —  for  haven't  we 
two  ears  to  one  tongue?  Other  folks  get  their 
relief  by  pouring  their  woes  into  your  ear.  How 
about  you?" 

"Oh,  I  pray  about  them,  "  she  answered  simply. 
"  Prayer  helps  more  than  anything  else." 

A  musician  came  to  see  me  the  other  day,  and 
we  had  the  whole  porch  to  ourselves.  After  we 
had  talked  of  various  superficialities  for  a  while,  I 
noted  an  intent  look  on  his  face,  and  he  held  a 
listening  finger  on  his  lip. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"I  was  trying  to  analyze  the  musical  sounds  in 
nature,  trying  to  scale  the  harmonies  going  on 
about  us." 

"Can  you  doit?" 

"No,"  he  said  ruefully.  "Our  musical  scale 
isn't  equal  to  it.  We  have  only  tones  and  half 
tones,  while  nature  uses  delicate  shadings  of 
sounds,  fractions  of  tones  we  have  no  way  of  repre 
senting.  Our  instruments  are  too  crude  for  the 
finer  harmonies  of  nature.  Listen  to  that  bird- 


184  Jfrom  a  &outfjern 


song  now.  There's  an  intricate  beauty,  a  tonal 
subtlety  in  those  trills  that  no  man-made  instru 
ment  could  give.  That  little  brook  as  it  goes 
singing  over  its  stones  has  a  rippling  melody  we 
can  never  capture,  never  give  on  any  mechanism 
man  has  made.  Listen  to  the  wind  among  the 
pine  trees!  What  organ  could  reecho  those 
majestic  diapasons,  those  sweeping  chords?" 

"I'd  call  them  polyphonic  prose,"  I  answered. 
"They  make  me  think  of  Amy  Lowell's  Can 
Grande'  s  Castle.  I  think  in  terms  of  poetry,  as  you 
do  of  music.  But  there's  a  lovely  rhythm  in 
nature  that  forever  eludes  man  and  tantalizes  him 
by  its  perfection. 

"Now,  I  lie  here  and  try  to  scan  these  effects 
by  metrical  units.  The  sound  of  a  galloping 
horse  is  pure  dactylic.  Of  course,  a  bird  song  has 
a  wild,  over-running  rhythm  that  no  fixed  foot  will 
measure,  yet  I  can  frequently  find  snatches  of  per 
fectly  regular  meters.  The  whistle  of  the  quail, 
Bob  White!  Bob  White!  with  its  answer,  All 
right!  All  right!  is  iambic,  while  the  call  of  the 
redbird  is  amphibrachic  —  sounding  like  Receive 
her!  Receive  her!  The  jay  bird  speaks  in  simple 
spondees,  Jay  !  jay  1  jay  I  jay  !  like  the  crow's 
spondaic  Caw  !  caw  ! 


3  ^outfjern  exposure  185 

"The  whippoorwill's  cry  of  Whip  poor  Will! 
Whip  poor  Will!  is  an  amphimacer,  short  in  the 
middle  and  long  on  the  sides.  The  phoebe  bird 
sings  in  trochaics,  Phoebe!  Phcebe!  Phoebe!  Some 
times  the  bird  refrains  will  have  acatalectic 
lines,  but  sometimes  they  are  perfect  in  their 
scansion." 

"Have  you  worked  out  the  verse  forms  they  are 
using  this  season?"  he  smiled. 

"We  have  much  free  verse  among  the  birds,  too. 
The  birds  are  fond  of  the  repetend,  as  of  the  refrain, 
and  use  all  sorts  of  metrical  devices.  I  listen  to 
them  and  try  to  fancy  what  poetic  forms  they're 
using  of  ours,  or  if  they  invent  all  their  own. 
They'd  probably  scorn  such  artificial  devices  as 
the  triolet,  the  ballade,  and  the  like,  but  the 
sincerer  songs,  like  the  sonnet,  they  must  be  fond 
of.  But  no  bird  is  long-winded  enough  to  attempt 
an  epic,  for  which  I'm  glad.  The  epic  is  an 
unnatural  form,  as  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  no 
woman  has  written  one.  At  least,  I  never  heard 
of  it  if  she  did." 

After  the  musician  went  away,  I  sat  by  myself 
on  the  porch  listening  to  the  sounds  about  me. 
I  heard  a  faint  murmur  of  voices,  and  looked  down 
to  the  curving  stone  seat  where  the  hill  begins 


i86  Jfrom  a 


to  slope,  to  see  Lucia  and  some  young  man 
there.  I  couldn't  hear  what  they  were  say 
ing,  but  the  murmur  sounded  like  proposal  con 
versation.  The  chipmunk  ran  along  the  wall  to 
complain  at  me  for  their  intrusion.  What  right 
had  those  young  human  beings  to  preempt  the 
nice  place  in  the  shade  right  over  his  house,  to  talk 
of  things  he  wasn't  interested  in  at  all?  If  the 
color  of  the  masculine  head  down  there  had  been 
chestnut,  let  us  say,  instead  of  sleek  black,  I 
might  have  shooed  that  chipmunk  away  and  told 
him  to  let  events  of  importance  take  their  course, 
instead  of  interrupting  love's  exaggerations  and 
sweet  fictionings. 

But  as  it  was,  I  said  no  word  to  that  chipmunk, 
but  only  looked  approval  at  his  chatter.  Why 
couldn't  he  scold  a  little  louder?  Didn't  it  ever 
occur  to  the  stupid  little  beast  that  he  might  leap 
on  a  coat  shoulder  and  bite  a  man's  ear?  That 
would  bring  forth  a  show  of  temper  that  might  be 
disillusioning  enough.  I  wished  that  I  were  a  chip 
munk  so  that  I  could  try  it  myself,  as  any  chip 
munk  should  do  when  the  wrong  man  is  proposing 
to  the  sweetest  girl  in  the  world,  right  at  his  front 
door.  Animals  are  so  unimaginative  !  Now,  much 
as  I'd  like  to,  I  couldn't  bite  the  Doctor's  ear 


&  ^outfjern  exposure  187 

without  causing  unfavorable  comment,  but  a  chip 
munk  could  do  it  with  impunity. 

But  he  didn't. 

A  writer  from  New  York,  who  was  passing 
through  this  part  of  the  country,  came  to  see  me 
a  few  days  ago.  In  speaking  of  books  he  said/ 'I 
had  ambitions  to  be  a  great  writer,  and  I've  missed 
it." 

' '  You  may  yet  write  the  books  you  dreamed  of, ' ' 
I  suggested. 

He  shook  his  head  rather  forlornly.  "No,  I'm 
almost  sixty  years  old,  and  now  the  thought  of 
death  is  ever  present  with  me.  I'll  go  on  as  I've 
done  for  a  little  while,  and  then  a  few  years  of 
semi-consciousness,  of  half -living — and  then  what? 
What  lies  beyond  death?  The  thought  tortures 
me!" 

"  I  think  of  death  as  a  door,"  I  answered  gently. 

"  We'll  just  go  on  living,  with  a  newer,  better  life. 
We'll  know  then  the  things  that  elude  us  now. 
We'll  be  wise,  without  the  fret  and  worry  of  our 
brains  to  learn  the  truth.  We'll  be  ourselves,  but 
our  best  selves." 

"  If  I  could  only  know ! "  he  cried. 

"We  can't  know  everything,"  I  said.  "We  must 
trust,  as  little  children  do.  The  brain  can't  solve 


i88  Jfrom  a  g>outfjern 


everything  —  for  some  things  must  be  left  to  the 
heart." 

"I  think  that's  the  trouble  with  my  life,"  he 
said  slowly.  '  '  I  '  ve  tried  to  live  by  the  brain  alone, 
and  never  by  the  heart. 

"  Do  you  know  Robert  Wilbur?  He's  a  cynical 
poet,  a  bachelor,  but  not  long  ago  he  said  to  me, 
'That  phrase,  "Except  ye  become  as  little  chil 
dren,  ye  cannot  enter  into  the  Kingdom,"  rings 
continually  in  my  mind.  '  ' 

"We  all  need  to  become  as  little  children.  True 
goodness,  true  greatness,  is  in  being,  not  in  striving. 
The  children  are  the  true  sages,  and  poets  and 
heroes,  after  all,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  children  are  such  magical  little  creatures, 
too  exquisite  for  adults  to  understand,  and  yet 
there  are  some  people  to  whom  a  child  is  common 
place." 

He  looked  out  across  the  lawn  to  the  edge  of  the 
road  where  a  barefooted  youngster  had  stopped 
to  play  with  a  puppy.  "I  think  it's  only  the  old 
bachelors  and  the  women  who've  never  had  chil 
dren  that  appreciate  them,"  he  said  humbly.  "I 
live  in  New  York,  and  the  lonesomest  thing  about 
that  town  to  me  is  that  I  don't  know  any  chil 
dren.  And  I  need  to  know  some  children!  A 


&  &outf)ent  (Exposure  189 

child  has  no  distressful  thoughts  about  death, 

but  I " 

"Listen  a  moment,"  I  said,  motioning  toward 
the  cornfield  where  Mose  was  singing  as  he  worked. 

"  Swing  low,  sweet  chariot, 
Comin'  for  to  carry  me  home ! ' ' 

Lower  the  sun  was  setting.  Like  a  flaming 
wheel  it  rested  on  the  edge  of  the  clearing,  shining 
across  the  open  spaces,  lighting  with  glory  the  pine 
woods  at  one  side. 

"  I  looked  over  Jordan,  and  what  did  I  see? 

Coming  for  to  carry  me  home ! 
A  band  of  angels  comin'  after  me, 
Comin'  for  to  carry  me  home! " 

As  the  myriad  corn  leaves  were  stirred  by  the 
wind,  I  heard  a  rustle  as  of  unseen  wings.  The 
sweet,  mournful  voice  sang  on,  the  bent  figure 
swaying  to  and  fro  in  rhythmic  motion  with  the 
song.  The  crude  song  had  a  pathos,  not  personal 
but  racial,  expressing  the  nostalgia  perhaps  of  a 
homeless  people  for  a  home  they  had  never  known, 
symbolic  of  our  longing  for  "a  more  continuing 
city."  The  untrained  voice  had  a  sweetness  that 
grand  opera  never  had  for  me,  unconscious  of 


190  Jfrom  a  ^outftetn 


the   song's   poignant   beauty,    unaware   of    any 
auditor. 

"  Swing  low,  sweet  chariot, 
Comin'  for  to  carry  me  home!  " 

Lower  the  golden  wheel  sank,  still  lower,  lower 
still,  its  golden  spokes  glimmering  through  the 
banners  of  green.  As  the  dusk  came  on,  the  song 
trailed  off  into  silence,  and  shouldering  his  hoe,  the 
black  laborer  came  across  the  field.  The  chariot 
had  passed,  but  its  light  lingered  on  our  porch. 

11  Coming  for  to  carry  me  home,"  I  echoed  softly. 
"  Home!  There'll  be  little  children  there,  for  of 
such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven!*' 

"Yes,"  the  man  said.  And  then  he  went  away, 
without  another  word. 


VII 

BACK-PORCH  CALLERS 

A  MORNING  on  the  back  porch  is  a  joy  to  be 
remembered.  There's  always  something  different, 
something  new,  to  make  each  day  individual ;  yet 
the  back-porch  mornings  blend  indistinguishably 
together  in  a  harmony  of  pleasant  peace.  Life  is 
all  about  me  there,  in  its  manifold  activities,  its 
multitudinous  stirrings,  yet  those  hours  are  as 
restful  as  dream-haunted  sleep,  to  be  recalled 
afterward  in  the  unresting  stir  of  the  city,  as 
parentheses  of  peace.  The  hands  may  be  busy 
on  the  back  porch,  but  the  mind  is  rested  and  the 
heart  at  ease. 

Sometimes,  while  we  are  at  breakfast,  Mose 
will  come  in,  his  ragged  felt  hat  perched  on  one 
pensive  finger,  and  remark,  "Dey's  corn  an* 
butter  beans  an'  cymblin's  dat  should  be  canned 
to-day  ef  you  doan'  wish  'em  to  spile." 

" Oh,  can't  they  wait  till  to-morrow?"  my  indo 
lence  protests. 

191 


192  Jfrom  a  &otst(ern 


He  laughs  indulgently.  "Naw'm,  dey's  to- 
matoses  dat'll  have  to  be  tended  to  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  all  right!"  I  capitulate,  and  move  out  to 
the  back  porch.  What  use  to  argue  with  a  gar 
dener  whose  hat  bespeaks  such  long  experience 
with  the  soil? 

I  seat  myself  upon  the  second  step  and  wait  for 
the  corn.  Mose  comes  up  with  a  great  basket  full 
of  gay  green  ears,  which  he  puts  down  before  me. 

"What's  the  name  of  this  corn?  "  I  inquire,  with 
a  bucolic  air. 

"Dey's  Country  Gentlemen,"  he  answers. 

The  Country  Gentlemen  are  rather  comic  figures, 
with  long  blond  beards  and  bright  green  garments, 
which  I  strip  mercilessly  from  them.  I  am  with 
out  shame. 

The  hounds  discover  my  presence  and  come 
up  to  be  conversed  with.  The  puppies,  engaging 
young  creatures  with  yelping  spontaneity  of  move 
ment  and  confiding  eyes,  leap  all  over  me,  till  I 
have  to  cuff  them  affectionately  with  an  ear  of 
Country  Gentlemen.  They  face  the  world  with 
all  the  impudent  irresponsibility  of  extreme 
youth,  with  an  arrogant  optimism,  a  blithe  faith 
in  a  well-boned  world.  But  the  hounds  have  a 
disillusioned  air  that  is  touching.  Is  there  any- 


Caller*  193 


thing  more  mournful  than  an  elderly  hound?  He 
seems  conscious  of  the  indignity  of  his  looks,  with 
his  slat  sides,  his  loose,  pendent  ears,  and  his 
unlovely  lines.  A  grown  hound  has  the  most 
apologetic  air,  forever  beseeching  pardon  of  heaven 
for  being  a  hound.  He  will  put  his  nose  on  your 
arm  with  a  look  in  his  melancholy  eyes  that  says, 
"I'm  homely  and  forlorn,  and  I  expect  nothing  but 
to  be  kicked  —  but  love  me  a  little,  if  you  can  !  I'm 
lonesome!"  Save  when  the  fox  is  on  the  run, 
hounds  are  futile  things,  and  realize  the  fact. 

These  hounds,  despite  their  effacing  air,  are  a 
deal  of  trouble  on  this  place.  They  are  likely  to 
break  away  at  frequent  times  and  go  gallivanting 
over  the  countryside,  settling  down  at  some  far 
estate  where  they  are  not  in  the  least  desired,  so 
that  the  telephone  jingles  frantically  for  Mose 
to  come  and  bring  them  home. 

Blunder,  an  old  hound  that  had  been  given 
away,  but  who  had  wandered  away  from  his  new 
home  and  suffered  all  sorts  of  privations  and  ill- 
usage,  came  home  to  die  not  long  ago.  He  was 
sick  and  starving  and  broken-hearted.  He  dragged 
his  dreadful  body  about  after  us,  looking  at  us 
with  the  mournfullest  eyes  in  the  world.  He 
was  so  diseased  that  he  could  not  live,  and  would 
13 


194  Jfrom  a  &otstf)ern 


only  bring  contagion  to  the  other  dogs,  so  we 
gave  him  all  he  wanted  to  eat,  and  then  someone 
chloroformed  him  while  he  slept.  The  Man  of  the 
House  wouldn't  stay  to  see  it  done,  though. 

These  dogs  are  ungainly  creatures,  yet  the  Man 
of  the  House  loves  them.  He  sympathizes  with 
the  sentiments  of  a  former  governor  of  Texas  who 
was  devoted  to  his  dogs,  but  allowed  his  boys 
considerable  license,  till  one  day  the  youngest  son 
kicked  one  of  the  puppies.  The  father  promptly 
castigated  the  youngster,  saying  sternly,  "Let  that 
teach  you  a  lesson  how  to  treat  dogs  !  Kicking  my 
fine  puppy,  indeed!  And  now  I  come  to  think  of 
it,  you've  been  disrespectful  to  your  mother 
lately!" 

A  hound  justifies  its  existence  because  it  is  so 
affectionate.  There's  no  luxury  like  being  loved. 
With  most  persons  or  creatures,  you  have  to  pay 
the  price  in  being  lovable  —  it's  worth  it,  even  so  — 
but  a  hound  doesn't  question  your  deserts.  He'll 
lick  your  hand  without  asking  for  credentials.  To 
have  the  sincere  affection  of  a  hound  is  worth  a 
million  dollars.  Now,  a  bulldog's  devotion  has  a 
menace  in  it,  but  you  know  a  hound  won't  bite  you, 
even  though  you  richly  deserve  it.  The  hound  is 
like  some  faithful,  humble  souls  that  love  and 


Caller*  195 


expect  no  return.  A  bulldog  is  a  problematic 
character. 

A  little  pig  that  has  rooted  under  the  boards  of 
its  pen  comes  running  up,  squealing  in  glee  at  his 
liberty  and  munches  at  the  corn  husks  I  throw  him. 
I  wish  I  knew  the  psychoanalysis  of  a  pig.  I  look 
at  the  snub  nose,  the  snoutish  face,  the  slanted 
forehead,  and  wonder  what  emotions  are  behind 
all.  Of  what  does  the  brain  behind  that  retreat 
ing  brow  think  in  the  long,  hot  days  when  piggy 
lies  and  grunts?  If  I  could  know  the  language  of 
his  grunts!  Does  he  have  any  premonitions,  I 
wonder,  that  next  Christmas  this  family  will  be 
eating  home-cured  ham  and  spareribs  and  back 
bone?  Do  those  nervous  little  feet  know  that 
presently  they'll  be  pickled? 

Likewise  do  those  chicks,  those  cuddly  balls  of 
fluff  that  blow  like  white  and  yellow  thistledown 
about  the  steps,  cheeping  and  scratching,  realize 
their  fate?  These  little  things  that  clutch  at  the 
heart  with  their  helplessness  and  beauty,  —  do  they 
foresee  the  time  when  they'll  be  long-legged 
scrawny  fowls  and  be  put  ruthlessly  into  the  pot? 
And  what  of  me?  What  pot  of  destiny  with  its 
crackling  fires  is  being  made  ready  for  me,  around 
the  corner  of  some  unconscious  to-morrow?  But 


196  Jfrom  a  gboutfrern 


never  mind,  this  is  to-day,  and  life  is  fair,  so  that 
little  Pig,  and  Chicks,  and  I  are  wise  to  be  happy  ! 

I  amuse  myself  with  striving  to  range  and 
arrange  the  possibilities  of  pig  interest.  There 
is  the  pig  lyrical,  the  pig  metaphorical,  the  pig 
epic,  the  pig  dramatic,  the  pig  comic.  Doubtless 
this  current  pig  is  unaware  of  his  cosmic  and 
inspirational  importance,  though,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  may,  like  certain  others  than  pigs,  over 
estimate  his  relation  to  the  universe.  A  more 
learned  pigster  than  I  am  might  trace  the  subject 
further.  What  a  character  in  fiction  the  pig 
might  be  made!  —  for  his  dominant  traits  are 
pronounced  and  describable.  Then  how  rich  is 
the  local  color  of  the  pigsty,  how  affluent  the 
atmosphere!  A  practiced  pig-stylist  would  find 
memorable  material  for  description  and  exposition, 
yet  the  pig  has  been  neglected  in  literature.  For 
who  but  Lamb,  the  inspired,  has  roasted  or  toasted 
him  wrapped  in  the  leaves  of  a  book?  I  love 
Lamb's  letters  for  their  constant  thanks  for  gifts 
of  pig. 

Then  what  animal  is  more  endeared  to  the 
heart,  more  close  to  memories  of  home  life  than 
the  pig?  One  thinks  how  happily  of  Christmases 
past,  when  the  pig,  a  triumphant  brown,  held  the 


Caller^  197 


apple  of  concord  in  his  juicy  mouth.  Scents  of 
sizzling  spare-ribs,  of  the  back-bone  of  content,  of 
little  sausages  frying  in  the  pan,  have  power  to 
transport  me  to  my  childhood  days.  I  mind  me 
of  a  certain  country  client  of  my  father's,  who  used 
to  visit  us  when  she  came  to  court,  bringing  gifts, 
like  the  Greeks,  but  of  pig,  not  of  horse.  Such 
sausages,  such  country-cured  ham,  such  chitter 
lings!  —  who  in  cities  knows  of  chitterlings?  And, 
oh,  the  crackling  bread  that  our  old  cook  used  to 
make!  And  chine,  and  pig's  feet,  pickled!  My 
tongue  rolls  blissfully  at  the  remembrance  of  all 
these  piggish  delicacies  of  the  past. 

It  is  the  pig  that  is  really  the  forbidden  fruit,  for 
too  much  of  him  makes  a  mortal  long  to  be  as  the 
gods,  —  witness  the  Germans  of  yesterday.  Kul- 
tur  has  its  factual  basis  in  over-much  sausage. 

Another  memory  of  my  childhood  is  connected 
more  dramatically  with  a  pig.  We  had,  when  I 
was  extremely  small,  a  pig  libre.  Its  feet  were 
unrestrained,  and  it  intrigued  me  with  its  curly  tail, 
so  that  life's  one  pursuit  was  to  catch  that  tail  and 
see  if  I  could  pull  the  curl  out.  Upon  such  trivial 
motives  are  great  passions  based  !  I  had  no  such  en 
trancing  curls,  —  so  why  should  a  spotted  pig  astat. 
a  few  months,  while  I  was  all  of  three  years  old  ? 


198  Jfrom  a  &out&ern  $orcf) 

One  day,  one  never  to-be  forgotten  day,  I  caught 
the  tail  and  careered  wildly  and  joyously  around 
the  yard  behind  it  and  the  pig.  Life's  great 
adventure  realized,  life's  inquisitiveness  satisfied! 
The  curl  did  come  out!  But  the  pig  was  unable 
to  understand  the  purely  scientific  spirit  of  my 
research.  He  had  not  the  anthropomorphic  mind, 
hence  couldn't  fathom  why  I  wished  to  entail 
such  inconvenience  upon  him.  But  why  these 
needless  details? 

He  ran  faster,  and  so  did  I.  I  couldn't  let  go, 
and  neither  could  he,  though  we  were  at  one  in  the 
desire  to  be  separated.  He  dashed  under  the  edge 
of  a  low  building,  I  straight  behind,  until  a  nail, 
sticking  out,  struck  me  in  the  forehead.  Then  I 
let  go.  A  little  angular  scar  in  the  edge  of  my 
hair  remains  with  me  till  now  as  a  memento  of  my 
interest  in  pigs,  the  mark  of  pig  upon  my  brow. 

Then  there  is  the  pig  lyrical.  True,  I've  never 
seen  a  pig  soaring  above  the  empyrean  clouds, 
but  that's  no  proof  that  he  doesn't  do  so  when 
people  aren't  looking  at  him.  Perhaps  that's 
what  he's  up  to  when  he  square-roots  his  way  out 
of  the  pen  and  is  gone  for  hours  at  a  time,  necessi 
tating  much  loss  of  time  on  the  part  of  Mose. 
Or  perchance  he  lyricizes  at  night.  Perhaps  the 


52ack-$orcf)  Caller*  199 

fairies  lean  over  the  bars  of  his  pen  and  woo  him 
enchantingly  in  the  moonlight.  Why  not,  pray,  if 
Titania  was  in  love  with  an  ass's  head? 

Nor  have  I  heard  any  number  of  soulful  songs 
about  pigs,  but  my  musical  education  is  by  no 
means  complete.  A  man  I  knew  in  Oxford  used 
to  chant  when  he  was  feeling  happy, 

"When  we  are  married  we'll  have  sausages  for  tea, 
When  we  are  married  we'll  have  sausages  for  tea, 
When  we  are  married  we'll  have  sausages  for  tea, 
Tum-ti-tum-ti-tum ! ' ' 

Now,  I'm  not  sure  that  he  ever  had  sausages  for 
tea,  but  evidently  the  idea  represented  two  states 
of  perfect  bliss  for  him :  matrimony,  and  sausages. 
Then  there  is  the  pig  dramatic.  What  'scapes, 
what  chase,  what  struggles,  what  pursuits  have  I 
known  in  connection  with  those  few  pigs  in  yon  pen ! 
What  complications  of  pursuing  trousers  with 
barbed- wire  fences  and  blackberry  vines!  What 
colorful  language  issuing  visibly  from  the  lips 
of  Mose!  The  household  is  plunged  in  gloom 
when  the  pigs  get  loose,  and  women  wander 
helplessly  from  window  to  window  to  see  the 
return.  What  impels  those  pigs  to  break  away 
from  their  perfectly  happy  home,  where  they  are 


200  .jfrom  a  ^outfiern 


swilled  thrice  daily,  and  where  a  whole  family 
leans  over  the  rails  to  gloat  over  each  apparent 
extra  pound  of  flesh  ?  Do  they  wish  a  wider  land 
scape,  or  just  escape?  Do  they  wish  to  go  some 
where,  or  just  away?  If  I  could  but  understand  a 
pig,  I  should  know  more  about  my  own  impulses 
and  motivations. 

There  is  also  the  pig  metaphoric,  who  has 
appeared  often  in  literature,  though  not  always 
with  a  porcine  terminology.  There  are  many 
human  pigs,  not  confined  in  sties,  that  are  on  the 
whole  less  admirable  than  their  penned  brothers. 
The  pig  symbolic  has  left  his  hoof  -marks  on  many 
a  printed  page,  without  being  aware  of  the  fact. 

In  the  pasture  near  by  the  horses  run  and  graze. 
The  mother  neighs  solicitously  after  her  little 
bow-legged  colt  on  its  preposterously  long  legs, 
looking  like  a  small  boy  on  stilts.  Why  do  chil 
dren  never  walk  on  stilts  any  more,  I  wonder? 
When  I  was  extremely  small,  stilts  were  the  height 
of  fashion  among  children,  small  boys,  and  tomboys 
but  now  they  are  no  more.  Stilt-walking  is  an 
entrancing  sport,  and  gives  one  a  sense  of  supreme 
power.  I  loved  it.  I  wonder  what  mental  and 
moral  stilts  I  use  now,  without  knowing  of  them? 

Mose  comes  back  with  more  corn,  and  brings 


Callers  201 


me  a  mole  he  has  caught  in  the  trap  in  the  vege 
table  garden.  Did  you  ever  see  a  mole  close  at 
hand?  It  is  a  lovely  little  thing,  with  the  softest 
fur  in  the  world,  softer  than  sealskin,  and  of  a 
wonderful  slate  gray,  almost  blue,  so  fine  and 
lustrous.  Digger  the  Mole  looks  like  a  tiny  pig, 
with  its  snout.  It  has  no  eyes,  because  it  doesn't 
need  any  in  the  dark  ground.  It  feet  are  of  a 
curious  paddle-shape,  much  larger  in  front  than  in 
the  back,  with  five  toes.  It  seems  strange  that 
such  a  beautiful  animal  should  arouse  the  harsh 
feelings  it  does  in  the  breast  of  kindly  Mose. 
How  does  the  mole  fend  for  itself,  with  no  eyes 
and  no  ears  ?  Does  it  merely  feel  the  vibrations  in 
the  ground,  as  Helen  Keller  does?  Is  there  some 
special  wireless  scheme  for  moles  and  earthworms  ? 
Mose  brought  me  a  field  mouse,  too,  that  he  had 
captured,  a  dainty  creature,  with  its  fur  soft  and 
gray,  but  not  so  delicate  as  that  of  the  mole.  It 
has  cunning  little  ears,  and  delicate  feet  with  four 
toes.  Mose  says  it  lives  in  the  cornfield  and 
destroys  a  deal  of  grain  of  one  kind  and  another, 
but  I  think  we  can  well  spare  enough  for  him. 

The  old  cat  who  lives  in  the  barn  comes  up, 
bringing  her  kittens  in  her  mouth,  one  at  a  time, 
and  lays  them  down  on  the  step  beside  me.  She 


202  jfrom  a  iboutjern 


knows  she  will  not  be  allowed  to  keep  them 
at  the  house  permanently  but  she  wishes  per 
haps  to  give  them  the  advantages  of  travel  and 
cultural  society  even  for  a  time.  I  am  glad  of  their 
presence,  though  they  do  make  a  muss.  I  have  as 
high  respect  for  this  mother  cat  as  for  any  human 
being  I  know.  She  is  an  unhandsome  beast, 
brindled  and  rusty  of  coat,  with  unmanicured  nails 
and  a  generally  unkempt  appearance.  She  used 
to  belong  to  a  country  neighbor,  who  gave  her  to  us 
on  my  earnest  solicitation.  The  reason  for  my 
admiration  for  her  is  this.  A  year  ago  the  other 
barn  in  which  she  was  then  living,  with  another 
batch  of  kittens,  no  more  beauteous  nor  high- 
pedigreed  than  these,  caught  fire.  The  mother 
chanced  to  be  away  at  the  starting  of  the  con 
flagration,  and  arrived  on  the  scene  only  in  time 
to  see  her  home  ablaze,  with  shouting  negroes 
wildly  pouring  Duckets  of  water  and  verbal  dbuse 
on  the  fire. 

What  must  have  been  the  emotions  of  that 
mother  cat,  as  she  saw  her  house  burning,  and 
remembered  her  kittens  ?  She  made  a  dash  for  the 
door,  when  some  negro,  always  kindly  to  animals  as 
colored  people  are,  attempted  to  head  her  off, 
not  knowing  her  motive.  She  escaped  his  clutch, 


$?acU-$ord)  Callers  203 

scratching  him  viciously  as  she  did  so,  and  dashed 
into  the  burning  barn  and  up  the  stairs.  She 
reappeared  with  a  kitten  in  her  mouth,  put  it  down 
in  a  safe  place  outside,  and  leaped  again  into  the 
fire.  She  made  that  trip  four  times,  bringing  her 
babies  safely  out,  without  a  singe  on  one  of  them, 
but  being  badly  burned  herself.  And  they  were 
only  very  ordinary  little  barn  cats,  at  that !  It's 
most  extraordinary  what  a  mother  will  do!  But, 
as  I  said,  I  cherish  that  cat. 

Aunt  Mandy,  who  has  come  out  to  sweep  up  the 
porch,  is  minded  to  broom  the  cats  away,  but  I 
restrain  her. 

"Let  them  stay  here,  Aunt  Mandy.  I  like 
society  while  I'm  working  with  my  hands,  though 
I  require  solitude  when  I  work  my  brain.  Which 
shows,  I  think,  that  brain  work  is  unnatural. " 

"Humph!"  is  all  she  says. 

The  porch  is  so  littered  with  kittens  and  Country 
Gentlemen  that  she  has  hardly  any  free  space  to 
sweep.  She  makes  a  few  futile  strokes,  then  leans 
loquaciously  on  the  broom.  Aunt  Mandy  is 
different  from  me,  in  that  society  hinders  her  work, 
and  conversation  endlessly  prolongs  her  task.  Yet 
I  have  noticed  no  tendency  on  her  part  to  refrain 
from  talk.  A  colored  person  is  more  constantly 


204  Jftom  a  &outf)ern 


vocal  than  a  white.  If  Aunt  Mandy  isn't  talking, 
she  is  singing,  and  if  you  don't  hear  her  doing  one 
or  the  other,  you  may  know  she's  huffed  over 
something,  so  you'd  better  keep  out  from  under 
her  feet  for  the  time  being. 

After  a  time  Aunt  Mandy  swept  the  porch 
to  the  tune  of  Peter,  Go  Ring  Dem  Bells,  one  of  my 
favorites  among  her  hymns. 

"Well,  I  heard  a  mighty  rumbling,  it  was  way  up  in  de 

clouds. 

It  was  nothin'  but  Master  Noah,  he  was  readin*  of 
de  laws. 

CHORUS  : 

Oh,  shout  de  glory,  glory  in  my  soul! 

We'll  shout  an'  sing  to  make  de  ol'  yearth  ring. 

All  join  hands  an'  march  to  de  heabenly  King, 

Oh,  children,  'twon't  be  long  befo'  we  hear  Gabriel's 

trumpet  sound! 
Well,  Peter,  go  ring  dem  bells; 
Peter,  go  ring  dem  bells; 
Peter,  go  ring  dem  bells. 
I've  heard  fum  heaben  to-day! 

Well,  go  away  po'  sinner,  don't  you  grieve  long  after 

me, 
Kase  I  have  a  heap  of  trouble  tryin'  to  buy  yo' 

liberty!" 

CHORUS: 


Caller*  205 


Mose  comes  up  with  a  basket  of  butter-beans 
and  a  handful  of  luscious  plums.  He  caressingly 
scratches  the  back  of  one  hound  that  huddles 
against  him,  and  murmurs  tenderly,  "Git  erway 
fum  heah,  you  onery,  lazy,  wuthless  hound,  you!" 

"Mose,  who'se  that  colored  boy  going  along  the 
road  so  fast,  all  dressed  up  in  his  Sunday  clothes?" 
I  query. 

As  Mose  looks,  he  laughs  secretively.  "Dat's 
Jephtha,  Milly's  boy.  He's  gwine  to  town  to 
have  hydrophobia.  " 

"What?" 

"Yas'm,  dat's  hit.  Hydrophobia.  He  has  hit 
ebery  time  his  ma  gits  paid  off." 

'  '  Tell  me  about  it  !  "  I  demand. 

Mose  chuckles  reminiscently.  "Wellum,  about- 
en  a  yeah  ago,  dat  triflin',  no-count  nigger 
got  bit  by  a  dog  dey  said  was  mad.  Tain't  hu't 
him,  of  co'se,  becase  nothin'  gwine  to  kill  dat 
nigger.  But  his  ma,  she  kinder  worry  bouten  hit. 

"One  day  in  town,  dat  shiftless  Jephtha  hearn 
somebody  say  dat  a  pusson  what's  bit  by  a  mad  dog 
should  take  de  pasture  treatment,  or  some  sich 
name.  Dey  say,  do',  dat  hit  cost  cornsiderable. 
Well,  dat  nigger  went  home  to  he  ma,  an'  tell  her 
he  boun'  to  hab  money  fo'  dat  cure.  She  say  she 


206  jfrom  a  ^outfjetn  florcf) 

ain'  kin  spare  hit,  which  was  de  trufe,  'kase  hit's 
all  she  kin  do  to  buy  tobacco  an'  shu'ts  fo'  that 
lazy  boy.  Wellum,  dat  boy,  he  begin  to  foam  at  de 
mouf,  an'  roll  roun'  on  de  flo'  an'  yell  out,  'I  got  de 
hydrophoby!  I  got  hydrophoby!'  'twell  his  ma, 
she  gin  him  de  money  in  a  hurry.  He  went  to  town 
an'  blowed  hit  in  on  movin'  pickshur  shows  an' 
ice-cream  sodys.  An'  when  he  come  back  home, 
he  say  he  wus  cured  fo'  de  time  being,  but  dat  de 
doctors  say  de  fits  was  likely  to  come  back  at  any 
time.  An'  den,  of  co'se,  he  must  take  more 
treatment. 

"Wellum,  dat  boy,  he  take  de  fits  ebery  month 
come  he's  ma's  pay-day,  when  Mis'  Weaver;  whar 
she  cooks  for,  pays  her  her  wages.  Den  Jephtha 
he  puts  on  his  best  clothes  an'  goes  off  to  town  to 
enjoy  his  hydrophobia. " 

"Why  doesn't  somebody  tell  his  mother  the 
truth?"  I  cry  indignantly. 

"Wellum,  dat  Jephtha,  he's  mouty  sly,  an' no 
body  roun'  heah  want's  dey  barn  set  on  fiah,  or 
dey's  best  dog  pisoned,  or  nothin'  lack  dat.  Dat 
boy,  he'd  do  anything.  " 

As  Mose  ambles  off  down  the  hill  toward  the 
garden,  I  watch  a  hen  cross  the  road  in  front  of 
an  auto.  What  is  there  in  hen  psychology  that 


Callers;  207 


makes  her  think  she  has  urgent  business  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road  whenever  an  auto  passes? 
She  will  call  her  chicks  after  her,  and  is  distracted 
if  they  don't  mobilize  in  the  center  of  the  road 
under  the  very  wheels  of  danger.  Perhaps  she  is 
merely  teaching  them  a  noble  scorn  of  danger,  or 
maybe  she  thinks  she  has  a  few  too  many  of  them. 
Mayhap  she  suspects  that  some  of  them  are  not 
her  own,  but  have  been  changed  in  shell,  and  she'll 
get  rid  of  them  in  easy  fashion.  Or  perhaps  hens, 
as  other  creatures,  find  it  difficult  to  adjust  them 
selves  to  conditions  their  ancestors  wot  not  of. 
Carts,  now,  and  buggies,  have  been  known  to 
chickens  for  countless  feathered  generations, 
hence  they  may  be  instinctively  avoided,  while  the 
auto-complex  is  new. 

The  other  day  an  aeroplane  passed  over  the 
place  here,  and  the  fowls  and  birds  were  pro 
digiously  upset  by  the  occurrence.  The  catbird 
flashed  his  broad  tail  indignantly,  the  chickens 
flew  to  cover,  the  buzzard  on  a  distant  fence 
flapped  his  ungainly  wings  inquiringly,  and  the 
pigeons  circled  in  the  air  as  if  bewildered  by  the 
flight  of  this  monstrous,  noisy  bird,  that  went 
so  fast  to  its  nest,  or  else  was  out  seeking  what 
it  might  devour.  I  wonder  if  the  birds  near 


208  Jfrom  a  ^boutfjern 


aviation  camps,  on  the  contrary,  did  not  learn  to 
treat  aeroplanes  with  disdain?  Perhaps  the 
migratory  birds  will  presently  arrange  to  take  their 
spring  and  autumn  passage  in  flying  machines,  thus 
saving  time  and  wing  energy. 

If  the  birds  and  animals  only  knew  how  to 
organize  properly,  they  might  have  an  easier  time 
than  they  do  now,  though  I  dare  say  it  is  nicer  as 
it  is,  for  the  human  world  is  getting  organized  to 
excess.  Anyhow,  though  animals  may  miss  much, 
they  escape  more.  A  rabbit  doesn't  have  to 
bother  about  income  taxes,  as  a  squirrel  is  upset 
by  no  changes  in  fashions  of  fur.  The  rent  prob 
lem  never  troubles  a  woodchuck,  and  a  polecat 
doesn't  have  to  ride  in  a  crowded  street  car,  though, 
if  he  did,  I'm  sure  the  other  passengers  would 
allow  him  plenty  of  room.  Animals  are  pretty 
well  off,  after  all,  as  are  colored  persons  in  the 
country,  who  show  their  happy  attitude  toward 
life.  Optimism  seems  related  in  some  occult 
way  to  pigmentation,  for  the  blacker  the  skin, 
the  kinkier  the  hair,  of  a  negro,  the  more 
joyous  and  blithe  is  he  in  disposition,  the  more 
heedless  of  any  to-morrow.  But  as  the  skin  is 
bleached  to  brown,  then  white,  the  laissez-faire 
policy  is  changed  to  the  motto,  "Do  it  now, 


Jiacfc-$orcf)  Caller*  209 

and  do  it  quickly,  or  the  other  fellow  will  do 
you!" 

The  animals  are  wiser,  and  we  should  learn  of 
them.  We  should  go  to  school  to  the  squirrels 
and  the  puppies,  in  the  open,  rather  than  be  shut 
up  in  gloomy  halls  with  spectacled  professors,  fos 
sils  that  never  were  alive. 

Thomas  Jefferson  Randolph  is  at  this  minute 
lying  on  his  back  in  the  shade  of  an  oak  tree  near 
by,  and  singing  to  himself.  He'll  never  have  a 
doctor's  degree,  but  then  his  hair  will  never  grow 
thin,  and  his  eyes  lose  their  brightness  by  peering 
at  print  in  musty  libraries.  Thomas  Jefferson 
Randolph  is  interested  in  the  things  that  really 
count,  as  one  may  tell  from  his  song. 

"Raccoon  up  de  'simmon  tree, 

Possum  on  de  groun'. 
Raccoon  say  to  de  possum, 

'Won't  you  throw  dem  'simmons  down?' 

CHORUS  : 

In  de  mawnin'  you  shall  be  free, 
In  de  mawnin'  you  shall  be  free, 
In  de  mawnin'  you  shall  be  free, 
When  de  good  Lawd  set  you  free. 

Ol'  Brudder  Ben  an*  ol'  Sister  Luce 
Gwine  telegraph  to  ol'  terbaccer  juice 


210  Jfrom  a  gxmtfjern 


What  a  great  camp-meetin'  gwine  to  be 
When  dey  ride  in  de  chariot  in  de  mawnin'. 

CHORUS  : 

In  de  mawnin'  you  shall  be  free, 
In  de  mawnin'  you  shall  be  free, 
In  de  mawnin'  you  shall  be  free, 
When  de  good  Lawd  sets  you  free." 

Tish  comes  up,  at  that  moment,  from  the  barn 
where  she  has  been  to  hunt  eggs.  Why  do  hens 
persist  in  leaving  the  safe  and  sane  nests  provided 
for  them  by  thoughtful  friends  and  going  off  to 
secretive  corners?  Tish  has  a  box  in  her  hands 
which  she  lays  down  excitedly  before  me.  I  look 
inside  and  see,  alas!  There  are  thirteen  little 
dead  chickens,  forlorn  little  corpses  that  had  never 
known  really  what  was  life. 

"Ah,  what  was  the  matter?"  I  cry  in  anguish. 

"Dat  crazy  yaller  hen,  dat  I  been  chasin'  fum 
pillar  to  pos'  to  fin'  her  nest  fo'  near-bout  a  month, 
she  done  stole  her  nes'  in  the  hin'  corner  ob  de  loft 
in  de  barn,  whar  nobody  ain'  hardly  ever  go.  De 
ol*  huzzy  !  She  mought  'a'  knowed  dat  dem  baby 
chicks  couldn't  hop  outen  a  high  box  lack  dis- 
here  is!  An'  she  ain'  kin  pick  dem  out  in  her 
mouf  lack  de  ol'  cat  kin  her  kittens.  Des  look 
dere  now,  —  thutten  little  chickens  dat  would  'a' 


3iacfc-$orcj)  Caller  *  211 

been  fryin'  size  in  de  shake  ob  a  dead  sheep's 
tail." 

I  gaze  tearfully  at  the  piteous,  wee  corpses, 
thinking  what  must  have  been  their  sufferings  of 
slow  starvation,  with  maybe  that  idiot  hen  gal 
livanting  off  on  pleasure  trips,  leaving  the  babies 
to  die  of  neglect.  Or  maybe  she  was  there  be 
side  them  clucking  grievedly  as  they  died.  May 
be  she  shouldn't  be  blamed  for  not  having  human 
intelligence.  But  poor  little  chicks ! 

Tish  gathers  the  box  up  in  her  apron,  resentful 
of  fate.  "Look  lack  dat  our  chickens  heah  is  jes' 
nachelly  conjured.  What  wid  the  hunnered  chick 
ens  dat  Missis  had  in  de  incrubator,  dat  she  'lowed 
to  die  de  day  befo'  dey  hatched,  'case  she  tunned 
de  little  oil  lamp  up  too  high;  an'  de  ones  in  de 
yudder  settin'  ob  de  incrubator,  whar  de  blastin' 
dat  dem  workmen  yonner  de  hill  done  kilt,  hit 
do  look  lack  we  is  bawn  to  bad  luck  wid  chickens. 
An'  de  weasel  an'  de  fox  an'  de  rats  ketches  mo', 
outen  de  henhouse,  'twel  hit  keep  me  purty  neah 
deestracted. " 

But  I  feel  no  sympathy  with  her  economic 
grievances,  for  my  pangs  were  all  for  the  poor 
baby  chicks.  To  think  how  they  must  have 
looked  forward  to  getting  out  of  those  shells,  only 


212  Jfrom  a  ^outfjern 


to  find  themselves  in  a  box  they  couldn't  get  out  of  ! 
Life  is  incomprehensible  and  cruel  for  chicks, 
sometimes. 

I  think  with  regret  that  perhaps  if  we  had 
followed  the  custom  of  the  Mexican  peon  in  having 
the  animals  and  fowls  blessed  for  the  year,  such 
calamities  would  not  happen.  Among  those  sim 
ple  folk,  one  of  their  innumerable  saints'  days  is 
set  apart  for  a  sacred  rite  connected  with  the 
animals.  Every  peon  brings  his  pigs,  his  chickens, 
ducks,  geese,  donkeys,  cows  or  whatever  live  stock 
or  feathered  property  he  may  possess,  to  the  court 
yard  of  the  church,  where  the  priest  pronounces 
upon  them  a  blessing  valid  for  the  year.  This 
benediction  is  supposed  to  keep  away  plague,  theft 
and  sudden  death,  though,  of  course,  if  an  animal 
should  die  before  the  allotted  time,  no  good  Mex 
ican  would  think  of  holding  the  priest  responsible. 

The  charm  is  thought  to  be  more  operative  if 
the  blesses  are  freshly  washed,  combed,  and  if 
possible  curled  and  dyed  beforehand.  Hence,  at 
one  of  these  rituals  one  may  see  blue  chickens, 
scarlet  geese,  orange  ducks,  burros  with  rainbow 
stripes,  gay  pink  dogs,  and  even  purple  cows. 

The  friend  in  whose  home  I  spent  a  month  in 
Cuernavaca  told  me  of  her  experience  with  the 


Caller*  213 


rite.  Her  husband  is  a  physician,  and  one  year  a 
grateful  patient,  living  in  the  mountains,  bestowed 
upon  him  a  lion  as  a  gift  of  appreciation  for  some 
marvelous  cure.  When  the  next  animal-saint's 
day  rolled  round,  the  peon  who  had  charge  of  the 
lion  insisted  that  his  protege  must  be  blessed  with 
the  others. 

So  the  cage  was  rolled  on  a  cart  to  the  court 
yard  of  the  church.  But  the  jarring  motion  must 
have  loosened  the  door,  or  else  the  lion  had  access 
of  strength  because  of  indignation  over  the  liber 
ties  taken  with  him,  for  he  broke  out  of  his  cage 
in  the  middle  of  the  ceremony.  The  benediction 
was  cut  short,  the  congregation  scattered  widely, 
painted  birds  and  beasts  flying  in  all  directions, 
and  the  faith  of  the  peons  was  rudely  shaken. 
After  that  the  padre  made  a  rule  that  lions  were 
outside  official  blessing. 


VIII 

A  LITTLE   STUDY   IN   BLACK  AND  WHITE 

SOME  mornings  Aunt  Mandy  searches  me  out 
on  the  front  porch  with  wheedlement  like  this: 
"Ef  you  was  minded  to  string  de  beans  an'  shell 
de  peas  fo'  dinner  whilest  Tishie  finishes  de  ironin', 
I  mought  could  spare  de  time  to  knock  you  up  a 
caramel  cake  dis  mawnin'. " 

"Oh,  all  right!"  I  assent,  gladly  abandoning 
whatever  favored  form  my  lounging  may  be  taking 
at  the  time,  in  favor  of  Aunt  Mandy's  famous 
caramel  cake,  which  is  one  of  my  chief  joys  in  life. 

"I  done  set  you  a  rockin'-cheer  out  on  de  kitchen 
po'ch  whereby  Tishie's  got  her  ironin'  bo'd, "  says 
Aunt  Mandy,  and  I  follow  her  to  the  rear. 

I  move  my  rocking-chair  as  far  as  possible  from 
Tishie's  sphere  of  activity,  however,  for  the  char 
coal  burner  on  which  she  ''hots "  her  irons  is  rather 
warm  for  comfort  on  a  summer  day.  The  kitchen 
porch  is  an  ideal  place  in  which  to  work,  for  it  is 

shaded  by  tall,  cool  trees,  and  open  to  the  breeze 

214 


3  ILittlt  £>tubp  m  $lack  anb  Mfjite       215 

from  three  directions.  Besides,  it  has  an  unob 
structed  view  of  the  road,  which  is  the  reason  why 
Tishie  elects  to  work  here  whenever  possible,  no 
doubt.  We  can  see  all  the  passers-by,  the 
calicoed  and  shirt-sleeved  negroes,  the  motor 
ists  from  town,  the  horseback  riders,  and  the 
strollers. 

Tishie  is  a  good-looking  young  mulattress,  hence 
I  notice  many  colored  persons  like  to  stop  for  a 
drink  of  water  from  the  well  when  she  is  working 
on  the  kitchen  porch.  For  instance,  Wash  Allen, 
a  big,  upstanding  buck  negro,  rounds  the  curve  of 
the  hill  almost  as  soon  as  I  take  my  seat,  saying 
casually,  'Tse  powerful  thirsty." 

"He'p  yo'self,"  says  Tishie,  with  a  flirt  of  her 
red-ribboned  head. 

Wash  drinks  slowly  from  the  tin  cup  taken  from 
beside  the  pump  handle,  casting  upward  eyes  at 
Tishie,  who  thumps  her  iron  vigorously,  pretending 
to  take  no  notice  of  him. 

Presently  he  leans  on  the  railing  of  the  porch,  to 
say  unctuously,  "Seems  lack  you  wu'ckin'  mough- 
ty  hard,  Miss  Tishie.  You  gwine  kill  yo'self  ef 
yo'  doan  quit  wu'ckin'  so  hard.  Fust  thing  you 
knows,  dey'll  be  singin'  at  yo'  house,  an'  you  won't 
be  hearin'  hit." 


216  Jfrom  a  ^outfjern  $lorcf) 

"Doan  reckon  dey's  any  danger  ob  you  wu'ckin' 
you'self  to  death!"  retorts  she. 

Wash  only  giggles,  otherwise  ignoring  her  snub, 
which  he  knows  is  induced  by  my  presence. 

"Shore  was  some  rain  we  had  las'  night!"  he 
remarks  affably.  "Reg'lar  gully- washer  an'  toad- 
strangler!" 

"Where  do  you  work,  Wash?"  I  inquire. 

"I  wti'cks  at  Marse  Jimmy  Parsons,  in  de  white 
house  ober  by  de  Three  Chop  Road, "  he  says. 

' '  Have  they  any  children  ? ' ' 

"Naw'm,  dey  ain'  got  no  chillun.  Am'  nothin' 
runnin'  round  dey  house  cep'n  a  fence, "  he  grins. 

"Does  you  like  hit  dere?"  asks  Tishie. 

"Yas'm,  most  inginerally  I  does.  But  some 
times  I  gets  de  worry -blues,  an'  I  reckon  I  wouldn't 
be  corntented  anywhere. " 

"Huh!  don't  be  such  a  hen-granny!"  sniffs 
Tishie. 

"Miss  Tishie,  is  you  gwine  wid  me  to  de  festible 
next  Sat'day  night?"  asks  Wash. 

She  gives  a  flash  of  her  eyelashes  at  him  as  she 
answers,  "I  mought  in  case  I  was  asked.  " 

"Well,  I'se  askin'  you  now,"  he  returns. 

"All  right." 

Wash  takes  another  long  draught  from  the  tin 


8  JLittlt  g>tubp  in  Slack  anb  m^itt      217 

cup,  sets  his  hat  on  one  side  of  his  head,  and  is  off 
down  the  hill. 

I  look  down  the  road  presently  to  see  a  creaking 
buggy  with  a  black  man,  a  mulatto  woman,  and 
two  ginger-cake  pickaninnies  in  it.  The  man 
alights  from  the  buggy  and  starts  on  foot  up  the 
hill  toward  the  house. 

' '  Here's  Amsi.  I  reckon  he's  comin'  to  give  you 
howdy, "  says  Tish. 

Amsi  is  a  friend  of  former  years,  who  used  to 
work  for  the  family,  an  estimable  darkey  who  has 
recently  finished  a  penitentiary  term  for  murdering 
his  wife.  In  fact,  he  was  out  on  parole  when  he 
was  with  us.  I  once  asked  him  why  he  killed  her, 
and  he  seemed  reticent  as  to  details,  merely  mum 
bling  that  she ' '  was  carryin'  on  wid  anodder  nigger. ' ' 

"Amsi  done  got  married  again  since  las'  sum 
mer,"  Tish  informs  me.  "Dat  no-count  yaller 
Lily." 

By  that  time  Amsi  is  almost  at  the  porch,  his 
black  face  shining  cordially. 

' '  Howdy,  mistis  ?     How  you  is  ? " 

"I'm  well,  thank  you.     I  hear  you're  married. " 

"Yas'm,"  he  grins.  "I  got  tired  o'  cookin' 
mah  vittles  all  de  time.  Dat's  Lily  an'  de  chillun 
in  de  buggy  now. " 


2i8  Jftom  a 


"So  you  married  a  widow?  How  long  has  her 
husband  been  dead?"  I  ask  friendlily. 

Amsi  shuffles  his  hat.     '  '  He  ain'  ecsackly  dead.  " 

"Oh,  so  she  was  divorced?" 

He  shifts  his  weight  to  his  other  foot  in  embar 
rassment.  "Naw'm,  she  ain'  divo'ced,  neither. 
We  ain'  never  believe  in  no  divo'ces.  Dey  doan' 
seem  decent  to  us.  Her  husban',  he  ain'  ecsackly 
dead,  'case  he  ain'  never  been  bawn.  She  ain'  had 
no  husban'  befo'  me." 

"Whose  children  are  those,  then?" 

"Dey's  Lily's  chillun.  Dem  chillun,  mistis,  is 
sorter  happen  chances,  you  know.  Well,  I  reckon 
I  better  be  gwine  long.  Cotter  be  travelin'." 

And  the  fiercely  virtuous  Amsi  creaks  down  the 
road  again,  with  his  new  family. 

Presently  after  a  few  discursive  thumps  with  the 
iron,  Tishie  pauses  for  conversation  again. 

'  '  Dere  comes  Jubal  Jones.  I  wonder  whut  he's 
comin'  up  heah  fo'.  To  borrow  somep'n,  ob  co'se. 
Jubal  Jones  is  de  borrowin'est  pusson  I  eber  seed. 
He'd  borrow  de  hair  off  'n  yo'  haid  an'  swear  he'd 
put  hit  back  next  Chewsday.  " 

Jubal  Jones  approaches  with  a  conciliatory  step. 

"Howdy,  mistis.  Sho'  is  a  scrumptious  mawn- 
in',  ain'  hit?" 


ILittlc  £>tubp  in  $lack  anil  3Uf)ite      219 


1  '  Huh  !  '  '  Tishie  grunts  to  her  iron.  '  '  Look  lack 
he  claimin'  de  credit  fo'  producin'  de  mawnin'!" 

"Yes,  it's  a  very  nice  day,"  I  concede  defen 
sively. 

He  pulls  the  lobe  of  one  ear  with  ingratiating 
fingers. 

"I  was  jes'  steddyin'  bout  how  to  take  my  ol' 
woman  to  church  to-morrow.  You  know  dere's 
a  protracted  meetin'  goin'  on  ober  by  de  Four  Mile 
Mill,  by  Tuckahoe  Creek.  " 

"Yes?" 

"My  ol'  woman  needs  religion,  an1  hits  too  fur 
fo'  her  to  walk.  Marse  Kilpatrick,  what  Marthy 
washes  fo'  his  wife,  done  loaned  me  his  blin'  hoss 
to  drive,  but  I  ain'  got  nothin'  to  drive  hit  to." 
He  pauses  with  insinuation. 

"And  so?"  I  query  courteously. 

"I  was  a  wondering  ef  you  all  would  lend  me  de 
use  ob  dat  ol'  buggy  you  got  in  de  shed,  fo'  de  day. 
Hit's  sorter  lack  loanin'  to  de  Lawd,  you  sees.  " 

"Well,  yes,  I  guess  so,"  I  consent.  "Stop  by 
to-morrow  and  tell  me  about  the  sermon.  "This 
last  is  intended  more  to  insure  return  of  borrowed 
property  than  to  evince  urgent  interest  in  the 
protracted  meeting. 

"Yas'm,  I  sho'  will,"  he  declares  vehemently. 


220  Jfrom  a  &outljern  Spore!) 

"Our  pastor,  he  is  a  ponderous  expounder.  He 
preaches  by  inspiration  an'  presperation.  He 
don't  hatter  study.  He  ain'  kin,  in  fac',  'case  he 
ain'  kin  read.  Dat  sarmon  ob  his  las'  Sunday  was 
sho'  stirrin'!" 

" What  was  it  about?" 

"Hit  was  abouten  whited  sea-pulchers." 

"What  is  sea-pulchers?"  asks  Thomas  Jefferson 
Randolph,  who  has  wandered  up. 

Jubal's  chest  swells  with  the  pomposity  of  in 
vited  information.  "Dey  is  dem  great  white 
birds  dat  flies  atter  de  ships  an'  eats  de  corpses  ob 
de  folks  what  dies  at  sea.  Doan  you  remember 
what  de  Bible  says  bouten'  dem?  Dey's  full  ob 
rottenness  an'  dead  men's  bones  ?  Sea-pulchers  is 
diffrent  fum  land-pulchers.  De  land-pulchers  is 
mo'  lack  de  turkey  buzzards. " 

"I  see,"  I  remark,  with  interest. 

"Yas'm,  he  sho'  is  one  great  preacher.  He 
preached  a  sarmon  on  cleansiness  Sunday  befo' 
last.  His  tex'  was  'Wash  an'  be  clean ' ! " 

"Always  appropriate,"  I  comment. 

"  Yas'm, "  and  Jubal  goes  off  toward  the  garden 
to  speak  to  Mose. 

Presently  Mose  comes  up  with  a  basket  of  vege 
tables,  wearing  a  rueful  look. 


&  Utttle  g>tttbp  in  JBlacft  anb  SHjute      221 

"Dat  dere  Jubal  Jones,  he  sho'  am  one  bor 
rower!"  he  complains  to  the  puppy. 

"What  he  git  fum  you?"  queries  T.  J.  R., 
vivaciously. 

"He  done  borrow  ten  cents  fum  me  to  put  in  de 
collection  plate  to-morrow.  He  ask  fo  hit  in 
nickels,  so's  he  could  put  in  one  an'  his  wife  de 
odder.  I  ain'  never  heard  o'  borrowin'  fo'  de 
Lawd  befo'.  Mos'  ginerally  when  folks  borrows, 
hit's  de  debbil  dat  gets  dey  money. " 

Presently  a  gay  express  wagon,  with  red  re 
splendent  wheels  and  vivid  sides,  comes  up  the 
road  to  the  hill.  It  is  drawn  by  a  horse  well  gone 
in  years  and  having  none  of  the  shining  appearance 
of  the  vehicle,  a  tired,  disillusioned  horse,  with 
limping  foot  and  hungry  sides. 

"Dat's  Solomon  Doolittle,  deliverin'  yo'  white 
dresses  his  wife  done  wash, "  Tishie  tells  me. 

Solomon  Doolittle  is  of  portly  size  and  with  a 
languid  grace  that  a  life  of  ease  conveys.  He 
presents  the  bundle  with  the  air  of  one  conferring 
a  medal  of  honor. 

' '  Here's  yo'  dresses,  mistis.  Dey  sho'  is  done  up 
nice !  My  Mariny ,  she  sho'  am  a  good  washer,  as 
well  as  a  good  cooker. " 

"That's  nice,"  I  respond,  then  fix  accusing  eye 


222  Jfrom  a  g>outf)crn  $orcf) 

upon  him.  "Solomon,  you  don't  feed  that  horse 
half  enough!  And  you  ought  to  attend  to  that 
lame  foot." 

"Yas'm,  a  white  lady  done  stop  me  on  de  road 
yistiddy  an'  say  de  society  fo'  cruelty  to  animiles 
will  git  me  ef  I  doan  feed  hit  mo'.  But  he  am'  a 
hoss  dat  shows  his  feed,  lack  you  know  some  hosses 
is  dat  way. " 

"All  the  same,  I  advise  you  to  feed  him  and 
doctor  him  better, "  I  sternly  admonish. 

"  Yas'm,  I'll  do  dat,  ef  you  thinks  best.  Hither- 
tofore  I  ain'  ecsackly  feed  him.  I  jes'  let  him 
browse,  but  I  gwine  buy  him  some  oatses  ef  you 
sesso. " 

"I  do!"  I  asseverate  emphatically,  and  Solo 
mon  drives  off  in  his  glorified  cart. 

"Dat  Solomon  Doolittle  sho'  was  well  named," 
says  T.  J.  R. 

"You  is  said  hit!"  agrees  Aunt  Mandy,  appear 
ing  in  the  kitchen  door  to  view  the  departing 
splendor  of  wheels.  ' '  He  am  de  laziest  man,  black 
or  white,  dat  was  ever  bawn  in  dis  county.  Ef 
dey  gives  gold  medals  fo'  laziness,  I  think  Solo 
mon  Doolittle  would  git  de  worl'  prize." 

"Where  does  he  get  the  money  for  such  a  bril 
liant  cart  if  he  doesn't  work?"  I  ask. 


ILiiilt  &tufc2>  in  JJlacfc  anb  3Hf)ite      223 


"Fum  his  chillun  what  dies.  " 

"Do  they  have  property  to  leave  him?" 

"Naw'm,  suttenly  dey  ain'.  Dey's  mos'ly 
babies.  But  dey  has  dey  lives  insured.  '  ' 

"What?" 

"Yas'm,  hit's  lack  dis.  Solomon  Doolittle 
been  livin'  in  dat  ol'  tumble-down  house  ob'  his 
fo'  nobody  knows  how  long.  Hit  set  right  plum 
on  de  groun',  an'  dat  ain't  healthy.  One  o'  his 
chillun  tuck  cornsumption  an'  died,  an'  Solomon, 
he  near  'bout  grieved  hisself  to  death  be'case  he 
ain'  never  thought  ob  insurin'  hits  life. 

"  Yas'm,  most  ob  de  colored  folks  roun'  heah  has 
dey  lives  insured,  even  to  de  little  chillun.  Dey 
is  really  mo'  profitable,  yo'  know,  'case  dey  dies 
oftener.  When  Solomon  Doolittle  think  about  hit, 
an'  when  anodder  one  ob  his  chillun  takes  de  corn- 
sumption,  and  is  tooken  down  in  de  baid,  he  went 
an'  had  its  life  insured.  Yas'm,  fo'  fifty  dollars. 
When  de  chil'  died,  he  bought  him  a  lawn  swing  to 
set  in.  Yas'm,  dat's  mostly  all  he  does,  you  know, 
sets,  an'  so  he  wanted  a  comf'tble  place  to  set  in. 
His  wife,  she  sports  de  family  by  taking'  in  washin'. 

"Wellum,  when  de  chillun  kep'  dyin',  yo'  see, 
Solomon  was  feelin'  right  prosperous.  Some  folks 
raises  cotton  fo'  a  libin',  an'  some  raises  hawgs,  or 


224  Jfrom  a  ^>out!jcrn 


cawn.  Solomon,  he  raised  chillun.  Colored  folks 
has  chillun  awful  easy,  yo'  know,  —  tain't  no  burden 
to  dem  lack  hit  is  to  white  folks,  so  Solomon  was 
git  tin'  up  in  de  pictures.  He  was  gittin'  rich. 
But  some  white  ladies  must  have  repo'ted  de  sar- 
cumstances  to  de  orcifers,  'case  long  come  a  health 
orcifer  an'  tol'  Solomon  he  gotter  move  his  family 
outen  dat  onhealthy  place.  Solomon,  he  say  he 
ain'  kin  do  dat,  'case  dat's  de  onliest  house  he  got. 
De  orcifer,  he  say,  ef  Solomon  doan  move  quick, 
he  gwine  put  him  in  de  penitentiary  fo'  murder. 
Yas'm,  fo'  murder!  So  Solomon,  he  moved. 

"He  bought  dat  gorgeoussome  wagon  wid  his 
last  two  chillun's  money,  an'  he  goes  'round  in  it  to 
deliber  his  wife's  washin'.  Yas'm,  hit  makes  hit 
kinder  hard  on  her,  'case,  yo'  see,  Solomon  'spects 
her  to  do  more,  since  hit's  easier  fo'  him  to  deliver 
de  wash." 

Aunt  Mandy  closes  her  monologue  and  the 
kitchen  door  with  a  bang  and  retires  to  her  pots 
and  pans.  Amidst  the  rattling  resultant  I  can 
hear  the  strains  of  her  song. 

"Once  dere  was  a  moanin'  lady, 

An'  she  libed  in  a  moanin'  land. 
And  she  had  one  onliest  daughter, 
Snatched  by  de  Lawd's  command. 


&  Hiitlt  g>tti&p  in  J?lacft  anb  Mfjite      225 

Moan,  sinner  moan, 

Till  de  good  Lawd  shall  set  you  free ! 
Moan,  sinner,  moan, 

Till  you  come  to  glo-o-ory!" 

Tish  and  I  look  again  toward  the  road,  where 
now  we  can  see  Elder  Burke,  the  pastor  of  the 
negro  Methodist  Church,  going  toward  town  in  the 
"Prince  Album"  coat  that  the  unmarried  women 
of  his  congregation  have  given  him.  He  is  a 
widower  of  three  months'  standing,  but  the  widows 
and  near- widows  of  his  flock  are  not  standing. 

We  can  also  see  Louisiana  and  Alabama,  the 
twins  whom  nobody  in  the  county  can  tell  apart. 
They  wave  joyous  howdys  to  Tishie  as  they  pass, 
by  their  gay  costumes  evidently  bound  for  some 
pleasure  excursion  to  town. 

Present!}'  a  champagne-colored  boy  about  twelve 
years  old  comes  up  the  hill,  with  a  curious,  loping 
movement  like  the  gait  of  some  woodsy  animal 
that  is  lazily  unafraid.  He  presents  a  folded  piece 
of  paper  to  Tishie,  and  kicks  up  pebbles  with  one 
warty  toe,  while  she  reads  it. 

She  smiles  with  guarded  gratification,  as  she 
says,  "Tell  yo'  ma  I  thanks  her  kindly,  an'  I'll  be 
proud  to  come.  I'll  bring  a  poun'  cake,  I  reckons." 

He  turns  on  one  earthy  heel  and  is  off,  his  sus- 

15 


226  jfrom  a  gxmtfjertt 


penders  but  ill-supporting  his  recalcitrant  trousers 
of  blue  denim,  his  blouse  of  indistinguishable  color 
sticking  out  from  his  waist  line. 

"  Lucretia's  Tave  is  gwine  to  be  married,  "  Tishie 
remarks.  '  '  Dis  is  de  invite.  " 

"Let  me  see  it,"  I  say. 

It  is  a  printed  affair,  on  cheap  paper,  and  reads  : 

"Tave  Crab  tree  and  Alabaster  Jones  will  be 
married  Wensday  night  at  8  o'clock.  You  are 
invited." 

Tishie  gives  me  monologic  information  concern 
ing  the  character  of  the  coming  festivity. 

"Yas'm,  I  done  boun'  to  git  a  present  fo*  dis- 
here  weddin',  'case  dey  doan  let  nobody  in  de  do' 
dat  ain'  got  a  present.  Dat's  de  ticket  ob  admis 
sion,  yo'  know.  Yas'm,  if  de  present  is  wuth 
twenty-five  cents,  you  can  hab  refreshments  sarved 
to  you.  Yas'm,  yo'  got  to  leab  de  price  tag  on  de 
bundle,  so's  dey  kin  check  up  on  yo!  An'  yo' 
name,  so's  everybody  kin  see  whut  you  gibe. 

"  Yas'm*  in  co'se  some  ob  dem  do  try  to  change 
de  price  tickets,  to  make  de  present  seem  more 
costive  dan  hit  is,  but  mos'  everybody  knows  what 
things  cost  at  de  five  an'  ten  cent  sto',  and  de 
twenty-fi'  cent  sto',  which  is  whar  we  ginerally  gits 
de  gifts. 


&  Utttle  &tttb|»  in  iSlacfe  anb  mWt      227 

"Yas'm,  ef  yo'  pays  fifty  cents  fo'  yo'  present, 
yo'  kin  hab  two  servin's  ob  refreshments,  but  it 
ain'  mostly  wuth  hit.  Naw'm,  doan  many  ob 
dem  cost  fifty  cents.  We  generally  gits  usessary 
things  dat  de  bride  an'  groom  kin  use  atterward. 
'Cose,  de  things  dat  you  ain'  kin  use  makes  de  mos* 
show  at  weddin's. 

"Yas'm,  dey  has  cake  an'  wine  at  de  weddin'. 
Yas'm,  de  guests  dey  furnishes  de  refreshments. 
Yas'm,  Virginia  is  dry  now,  but  dis  is  home-made 
wine,  made  outen  blackberries  an'  sich  lack. 
Some  ob  de  neighbors  gibes  wine  an'  some  brings 
cake.  Yas'm,  weddin's  is  very  nice,  but  dey  is 
expansive. 

"Yas'm,  I  knows  dey  is  got  jus'  a  little  house, 
jes'  two  rooms,  one  upstairs  an'  one  down.  Yas'm, 
dey's  moved  all  de  furniture  upstairs  so's  de  guests 
kin  hab  room  to  stan'  in.  De  bride's  payrents, 
dey  is  gibe  her  a  set  ob  golden  oak  furniture  fo'  de 
bedroom.  Yas'm,  dat's  on  exhibition  downstairs, 
wid  de  res'  ob  de  presents. .  De  bed  ain'  put  up, 
hit's  jes'  restin'  'gainst  de  wall.  Yas'm,  de  neigh 
bors  will  hab  to  stay  atter  de  infare  supper,  to  put 
up  de  bride's  bed.  Yas'm,  weddin's  is  pleasant, 
but  dey  do  eat  up  yo'  arns. " 

Presently  up  the  road  toils  a  fat  girl,  of  midnight 


228  Jfrom  a  g>outfjern 


black.  Her  breasts  resemble  the  inflated  balloons 
one  sees  on  circus  day,  and  her  hips  billow  as  she 
walks.  Her  white-toothed  smile  is  a  livening  thing 
to  see. 

"Dat's  Queen  Victoria,"  says  Tishie.  "She's 
wu'ckin'  for  Miss  Hadley  in  town  now.  " 

"Good-morning,  Vic,"  I  say  cordially.  "How 
do  you  happen  to  have  the  morning  off  on  Satur 
day?" 

"Wellum,"  she  smiles  expansively,  "I  done 
tooken  hit  off  to  invite  mah  frien's  to  mah  baptiz- 
in'  to-morrow.  I'm  gwine  to  be  baptized.  " 

"Tell  me  about  it,  "  I  suggest. 

"Wellum,  everything's  all  'ranged  fo'  now, 
cep'n  fo'  me  to  remin'  mah  frien's  'bout  hit.  I 
been  gittin'  ready  fo'  hit  fo'  near  'bout  three  months 
now.  I  done  got  in  a  lot  ob  baptizin'  presents 
already.  Yas'm,  folks,  dey  gibes  yo'  presents 
when  yo'  is  baptized.  Dat's  whut  colored  folks  is 
baptized  fo',  mos'  ginerally.  Yas'm,  I  done  got 
fo'  pairs  ob  silk  stockin's,  an'  a  breas'  pin,  an'  a 
bead  bag,  an'  nine  hanker-chers,  an'  two  chromios, 
an'  a  red  silk  wais',  an'  a  vanity-box,  an'  a  lookin' 
glass,  an'  a  lot  ob  odder  things.  Yas'm,  hit's  ex 
pansive  to  be  baptized,  but  yo'  gits  part  ob  yo' 
money  back. 


8  ILittlt  g>ttibp  in  Slack  anb  Mfjite      229 

"Yas'm,  hit  is  expansive  becase  ob  de  clothes 
yo'  is  got  to  buy.  Hit's  tooken  all  mah  wages  fo' 
three  months  to  git  mah  clothes.  Yas'm,  a 
pusson  has  to  hab  new  clothes  fum  de  skin  out  to 
be  baptized  in.  Hit  wouldn't  do  at  all  to  go  unner 
de  water  in  yo'  ol'  clothes. 

"Yas'm,  you  is  got  to  hab  three  separate  suits, 
all  complete  fum  de  skin  out.  Yas'm,  one  is  fo' 
to  drive  to  de  church  in.  I  gwine  drive  in  a  blue 
suit.  I  got  blue  silk  stockin's  an'  blue  shoes,  an' 
blue  pettiskirt  an'  all  to  match.  Yas'm,  I  hires 
a  kerridge  to  drive  to  de  church  in. 

"Yas'm,  den  when  I  gets  to  de  church,  I  has  to 
change  all  mah  clothes.  Yas'm,  dey  allus  does 
hit,  I  doan  ecsackly  know  why.  I'll  dress  in  pure 
white  fo'  de  baptizing.  I  got  white  shoes  an' 
stockin's  an'  all  to  match.  In  co'se,  do',  I  doan 
hab  to  buy  a  hat  to  wear  in  de  water.  Dat's 
one  saving. 

' '  Den  when  I  comes  outen  de  water,  I  got  to  put 
on  a  new  suit.  I'm  gwine  to  dress  in  pink  den. 
Den  I  has  to  pay  fo'  de  kerridge,  yo'  know.  Yas'm, 
a  baptized  pusson  allus  hires  a  kerridge  fo'  de  day. 
You  gits  hit  cheaper  by  de  day,  yo'  know,  'case  de 
driver,  he  kin  come  in  an'  see  you  baptized.  Yas'm, 
a  pusson  goin'  to  be  baptized  rides  aroun'  in  it  in 


230  Jfrom  a 


de  mawnin'  to  invite  her  frien's  to  come  to  see  her 
baptized.  Yas'm,  dey  knows  'bout  hit  befo'hand, 
but  dey  likes  bein'  pussonly  invited.  Yas'm,  I'm 
comin'  out  heah  de  day  befo',  case  de  jitney  charge 
too  much  to  come  out  heah  in  de  mawnin'.  I 
come  out  de  street  car  dis  time.  But  to-morrow, 
in  co'se  I  couldn't  ride  on  de  street  car.  Hit 
wouldn't  be  proper. 

"  Atter  de  baptizing  I  drives  'round  all  de  atter- 
noon.  I  gwine  be  baptized  'bout  fo'  o'clock,  yo' 
know,  an'  dat  leaves  a  lot  ob  time  befo'  sundown 
to  drive  in.  Yas'm,  I  know  hit  takes  all  yo'  wages 
to  be  baptized  lack  dis,  but  hit  sho'  am  nice  to 
be  a  lady  fo'  one  whole  day.  Yas'm,  hit's  wuth 
hit." 

And  Queen  Victoria  waddles  down  the  hill  again, 
after  voluminous  thanks  for  my  contribution  to 
her  carriage  hire. 

I  decide  that,  after  all,  Queen  Victoria's  phi 
losophy  is  not  half  bad.  She  gets  a  deal  out  of  her 
existence,  more  than  many  white  persons  whom  I 
know  do.  There  are  persons,  Anglo-Saxons,  to 
whom  life  seems  a  series  of  desiccated  duties,  duties 
with  the  substance  there,  of  course,  but  lacking  all 
juice,  all  freshness.  I'd  rather  be  like  Vic. 

From  the  wood-pile  comes  Mose's  voice  in  song. 


JLittle  &tubp  in  $lacfc  anb  iMtjtte       231 


"I  went  to  ol'  Nappie's  house  one  night; 

01'  Nappie  wasn't  at  home. 
But  I  took  mah  seat  by  a  pretty  yallar  gal, 
An'  I  picked  upon  an  ol'  jaw-bone. 

REFRAIN: 

Oh,  Susanna,  don't  you  cry  fo'  me. 
I'm  jus'  fum  Alabama,  with  mah  banjo  on  mah 
knee!" 

Lucia  and  the  Professor  stroll  up  the  hill,  from 
a  walk  in  the  woods,  and  she  drops  down  on  the 
steps  by  me,  while  he  goes  away  to  town.  Tishie 
has  finished  her  ironing,  and  starts  setting  the 
table  for  lunch  on  the  side  porch.  I  can  hear  her 
singing  as  she  rattles  china  and  silver  : 

"01'  Aunt  Sukey,  what  yo'  got  fo'  supper? 
Sparrowgrass,  chicken-foot,  an'  not  a  bit  o'  butter. 
Got  any  good  thing,  save  it,  save  it. 
Got  any  good  thing,  save  it  twell  I  come!" 

"  Lucia,  I'm  planning  for  you  and  the  Professor 
to  be  married,  "  I  say  facetiously  in  earnest. 

"  Never!"  she  cries  vehemently.  "He  seems 
to  me  like  a  granite  monument  covered  over  with 
Greek  and  Sanskrit  inscriptions  that  I  can't  make 
out.  " 

1  '  How  delightful  !  "  I  cry  .  "I  should  think  that 
would  appeal  to  your  sense  of  curiosity.  Who 


232  Jfrom  a  gxmtjern 


wants  a  husband  she  can  entirely  make  out,  or 
make  over?" 

"Yes,  but  --  " 

"Those  inscriptions  are  probably  nothing  more 
alarming  than  ancient  love  poems.  And  just  think 
what  fun  it  will  be  deciphering  them  all  the  rest  of 
your  life!  —  a  word  at  the  breakfast-table  some 
morning,  a  line  on  an  anniversary,  a  whole  sentence 
maybe,  when  you're  ill." 

"He  looks  so  stern,  as  if  he  had  such  capabilities 
of  displeasure  in  those  eyes.  He  looks  to  me  like 
a  blue-eyed  iceberg!" 

"But,  you  see,  you  never  can  tell  much  about 
icebergs,  because  only  one  seventh  of  them  shows 
above  the  water.  The  other  six-sevenths  may 
be  melting  with  tropic  emotions  for  all  you 
know.  " 

"Yes,  but  I'd  want  to  know!" 

"The  trouble  with  you,  Lucia,  is  that  you've 
been  spoiled.  You  think  that  men  and  colored 
persons  were  born  into  the  world  to  wait  on  you. 
You  think  because  a  man  doesn't  give  himself 
rheumatism  singing  ditties  to  you  in  the  damp 
grass  at  two  A.M.  that  he  has  no  sentiment.  At 
that  very  moment  he's  probably  punching  his  pil 
low  trying  to  think  out  a  plan  to  make  a  fortune 


&  liittlt  &>ttibp  in  JBlack  anU  iSfjtte      233 

or  a  fame  for  you,  which  is  better  than  serenading 
underneath  your  window. " 

Lucia  blushes  divinely.  "You  are  so  absurd! 
This — person  you  speak  about  doesn't  care  for  me 
at  all.  He's  never  said  the  least  word  about  ro 
mance. " 

"He  doesn't  say  anything?"  I  question  closely. 

"No!  He  doesn't  say  anything,  and  he  doesn't 
say  anything,  and  he  just  keeps  on  not  saying 
anything!" 

"Well,  he  may  have  an  impediment  in  his 
speech,  but  his  eyes  aren't  dumb ! "  I  retort.  ' '  And 
any  way,  Boston  men  aren't  as  ready  proposers  as 
Virginians.  Just  give  him  time  enough  and  he'll 
tie  himself." 

' '  Oh,  I  don't  want  him  to  say  anything ! ' '  Lucia 
blushes  still  more  furiously.  "Only — only — it 
seems  a  little — just  the  least  bit — discourteous, 
don't  you  think? — for  a  man  to  hang  round  and  be 
so  silent,  so  long?" 

"I  like  him!"  I  retort  stubbornly. 

"Oh,  you  like  everybody!"  she  accuses  in  dis 
gust. 

"I  don't  like  all  people  the  same!"  I  defend 
myself.  "I  have  grades  of  preference,  and  he's  in 
Grade  A." 


234  Jfrom  a  gxwtfjern 


"Not  with  me!"  she  cries,  escaping  into  the 
house. 

"It  isn't  time  to  turn  in  the  final  grades  yet!" 
I  hurl  after  her.  *  '  There  are  various  tests  to  come 
yet." 

The  old  cat,  who  has  brought  her  kittens  again 
out  to  visit  me,  licks  them  devotedly  and  looks 
up  at  me  with  eyes  full  of  affection,  as  if  to  say, 
"Aren't  they  adorable?"  The  homeliest  hound 
on  the  place  lies  down  at  my  feet  with  a  low  whine 
of  affection.  Love  is  the  rarest  thing  in  the  world, 
but  the  commonest  as  well.  It  is  not  like  genius, 
or  wealth,  or  fame,  or  great  success,  restricted  to 
the  few.  Anybody  can  have  love  abundantly, 
if  he  only  wishes  it. 

Just  as  I  decide  to  move  into  the  house,  Milly 
Andrews  comes  by  to  get  a  drink  of  water,  as  she 
is  passing  on  her  way  to  her  home.  She  stops  to 
talk  with  me  a  few  moments.  Milly  's  voice  is 
music,  every  accent  a  caress,  and  Milly  herself  is  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  women  I  have  ever  seen. 
She  is  almost  white  —  almost,  but  not  quite  !  —  with 
the  almost  that  means  everything  in  the  South. 
With  only  the  slightest  trace  of  African  blood,  she 
looks  like  an  Italian  princess  should,  with  her 


&  JLittlt  g>tubp  in  JBlacfc  anb  MJjttc      235 

mournful  dark  eyes  and  the  midnight  plume  of  her 
lustrous,  waving  hair,  with  the  crimson  quiver  of 
her  rich  lips  and  the  curve  of  her  soft  cheeks.  Yet 
Milly  is  a  negress — so  considered — who  lives  in  the 
negro  settlement  near  here  and  works  as  a  house 
maid  in  town. 

While  Milly  talks  with  me,  her  eyes  uncon 
sciously  arraign  the  world,  and,  as  she  walks  away, 
my  eyes  follow  her  down  the  hill,  suffused  with 
angry  tears  at  the  thought  of  Milly 's  life.  And  yet 
what  possible  solution  is  there? 

MILLY 

What  wild  desires,  what  tragic  dreams  are  thine! — 
What  chafing  at  the  fetters  of  thy  fate, 
What  yearning  for  the  impossible,  what  hate 

Of  thy  low  serfdom  in  thy  dark  eyes  shine ! 

That  fragile  form  was  never  made  for  toil ; 
Those  slender  fingers  have  an  artist's  grace, 
And  the  wild,  haunting  beauty  of  thy  face 

Makes  every  impulse  of  the  heart  recoil 

From  destiny's  decree.     Thy  soul  is  white! — 
And  thy  false  fatherhood  hath  dowered  thee 
With  Anglo-Saxon  brain — yet,  tragedy 

Has  claimed  thee  for  its  own,  the  racial  blight ! 

Must  bend  thy  head  to  bear  the  servile  yoke, 
That  proud,  dark  head,  erect  in  queenly  scorn! 


236  Jfrom  a  gxmtfiern 


For  those  few  drops  of  black  blood  thou  art  born 
To  live-long  shame  no  power  may  revoke. 

Thou  daughter  of  a  race  of  cavaliers, 
Banished  forever  from  thy  next  of  kin, 
Must  pay  the  penalty  for  others'  sin, 

Must  house  thee  in  low  negro  huts,  meet  sneers 

Of  cynic  men,  must  call  thy  hopes  to  heel, 
And  face  the  slaughter  of  thy  dearest  dreams. 
While  thy  white  womanhood  a  lily  seems, 

'Tis  mired  by  the  muck  of  negroid  it  reveals  ! 

Ah,  what  must  be  thy  father's  memories 
To  hear  thy  lyric  voice  and  know  that  thou 
Art  his  own  shame-born  daughter  that  doth  show 

The  darkling  splendor  of  those  mournful  eyes? 

To  see  in  thine  his  mother's  pure,  pale  brow, 
And  the  blossomy  curve  of  scarlet,  sensitive  lips 
His  young,  dead  sister's  own  !     What  scorpion  whips 

Of  impotent  remorse  his  soul  must  know  ! 

For  his  sin,  thou  the  unending  shame  must  bear, 
While  he,  unpunished,  in  his  world  walks  free  — 
Thou  innocent,  yet  worse  than  murderer,  he 

Has  damned  thee  to  a  lifetime  of  despair  ! 


IX 


EATING   ON   THE   PORCH 

EATING  on  the  porch  is  more  than  a  mere  utili 
tarian  process  devised  for  the  renewal  of  waste 
tissues.  It  is  a  physical  delight  participated  in  by 
all  the  senses.  The  eyes  feast  as  well  as  the  palate, 
the  ears  drink  in  intoxicating  sounds,  and  the 
nose — ah,  how  that  nose  does  enjoy  itself!  One 
eats  with  all  the  pores  of  the  skin,  with  the  hair. 
One  eats  more  than  mere  food,  but  devours  as  well 
the  dew- washed  morning,  and  swallows  the  banks 
of  honeysuckle  like  a  honey-hungry  bee.  The 
joyous  birds  slip  singing  down  one's  throat,  one 
quaffs  the  lake  and  the  lucid  brook  at  a  draught, 
crumples  pine  trees  as  salad,  and  finishes  off  with 
marsh-mallow  clouds. 

Eating  on  the  porch  is  a  rite  beyond  the  fancy  of 
city  folk  who  bolt  their  meals  and  eat  only  news 
papers  with  them.  Printer's  ink  is  bad  for  the 
digestion,  as  any  puppy  can  tell  you.  The  city 
person  is  dead  when  he  eats,  and  a  corpse  never 

23? 


238  jfrom  a  gxmtfjern 


does  properly  assimilate  his  victuals.  But  on 
the  porch,  in  the  country,  one  is  altogether  alive, 
and  eating  is  a  privilege  given  by  the  gods  to  a 
few  mortals  peculiarly  deserving.  Colored  persons 
are  gifted  in  this  respect,  and  I  am  like  them. 
Eating  is  with  me  a  rapture.  I  look  forward  with 
gustatory  bliss  to  each  meal  in  turn,  and  afterward 
regard  it  with  reminiscent  delight.  In  fact,  I  am 
unable  to  wait  for  proper  meal  time,  but  must  be 
eating  at  all  hours.  Food  is  so  delicious  that  my 
joyous  digestion  and  happy  appetite  are  constantly 
a-quiver  with  anticipation. 

Eating  on  the  porch  has  for  me  all  the  excite 
ment  of  foreign  travel.  To  me,  the  greatest  joy 
of  a  dining-car  or  a  table  in  a  steamship  on  the 
river,  lake  or  sea  is  that  you  can  see  so  much  while 
you  eat.  The  landscape  changes  more  rapidly 
than  the  courses,  and  you,  if  you  properly  protract 
your  meal,  can  devour  fifty  or  so  miles  of  field  and 
forest  or  waves,  without  having  them  included  in 
the  check.  Likewise,  on  a  porch,  you  can  see  a 
panorama  of  interest. 

My  day  of  eating  may  begin  with  breakfast  in 
bed  on  the  sleeping-porch,  if  I  like.  Of  course,  I 
don't  always  care  for  this,  but  sometimes  I  love 
to  snooze  till  late,  in  which  case  Thomas  Jefferson 


Cattng  on  tfjc  Jporcfj  239 

Randolph  Jones  brings  me  my  tray.  T.  J.  R.  has 
in  a  manner  adopted  me,  and  follows  me  about, 
looking  after  my  comfort  and  waiting  on  me. 
When  my  mother  used  to  tell  me  of  the  number  of 
slaves  on  her  father's  plantation  when  she  was  a 
child,  and  of  how  she  was  waited  on  by  countless 
pickaninnies,  I  used  to  wail,  "Oh,  mother,  why 
couldn't  you  save  one  for  me  ? ' '  Thomas  Jefferson 
Randolph  must  have  read  the  longings  of  my  soul, 
for  he  waits  on  me.  Perhaps  the  casual  offerings 
of  coin  I  give  him  from  time  to  time  encourage 
his  devotion,  but  at  any  rate,  I  am  well  cared 
for. 

Eating  breakfast  in  bed  is  a  treat  to  me,  but  not 
a  habit  so  fixed,  so  a  necessity,  as  in  the  case  of 
some  friends  of  mine  who  have  no  maid  but  like 
the  luxury  of  breakfast  in  bed.  The  wife  arises, 
prepares  the  meal,  serves  her  husband  his  grape 
fruit  and  coffee  on  newspapered  pillow,  and  then 
goes  back  to  bed.  Presently  he  arises  and  brings 
her  tray  to  her.  I  don't  know  who  washes  the 
dishes. 

Thomas  Jefferson  Randolph  comes  up  the  stairs 
with  soundless  barefoot  step,  but  the  clink  of  dishes 
notifies  me  that  my  tray  approaches.  T.  J.  R.'s 
morning  grin  is  an  affair  heartening  to  behold  in  a 


240  jftom  a  gxwt&ern 


world  where  so  many  adults  have  forgotten  how  to 
grin,  if  indeed,  they  ever  knew. 

"  Good-ma  wning!  How  you  is  dis  mawning?" 
he  asks  as  he  deposits  the  tray  on  my  counterpane. 
"How  you  done  slep'?" 

'  '  Perfectly  !  "  I  assure  him.  '  '  I  had  such  lovely 
dreams  that  I'd  have  grieved  at  waking  up  if  this 
hadn't  been  such  a  miracle  of  a  morning.  I  wonder 
how  it  contrived  itself." 

"Tain'  no  miracle  —  jes'  lack  de  mawnin's  we 
always  hab,  "  he  contradicts  smilingly. 

"Yes,  but  that's  just  the  beauty  about  miracles 
—  they  happen  all  the  time." 

T.  J.  R.  digs  one  responsive  toe  into  the  floor 
as  he  answers  the  previous  comment.  "I  dunno 
huccome.  "  That  is  one  thing  I  have  noticed 
about  colored  conversation  —  there  is  no  sense  of 
tyrannic  logic  about  it,  no  cumbering  necessity  for 
coherence,  no  irksome  continuity. 

"What  have  you  got  for  my  breakfast?"  I 
inquire  as  my  nose  quivers  anticipatorily  at  the 
whiffs  from  the  covered  dishes. 

He  removes  the  top  from  a  bowl  disclosing  straw 
berries  obviously  picked  within  the  hour.  "Dese  is 
fum  de  ever-bearing  vines  mistis  done  had  sot  out  fo' 
you  to  hab  strawberries  all  summer,  "he  announces. 


€atutg  on  tfje  $orcfj  241 

"Such  strawberries!"  I  exclaim.  "And  such 
cream  to  go  with  them!" 

I  roll  rapturous  tongue  as  I  eat,  thinking  of  the 
kind  hands  that  had  set  out  the  berry  plants, 
milked  the  cow,  skimmed  the  cream,  and  brought 
the  tray  to  me.  (Different  hands  in  each  case,  you 
understand,  but  receiving  a  corporate  gratitude.) 
I  think  with  pleasure  of  the  good  old  cow  that  gave 
the  milk.  I  don't  enjoy  thinking  of  the  good  old 
cows  that  furnish  milk  to  me  in  the  city.  Milk 
there  is  an  impersonal  product,  not  sentimental 
ized  in  any  way,  and  the  least  one  thinks  about  it 
the  more  comfortable  one  is. 

T.  J.  R.  converses  on  topics  of  varied  interest 
the  while  I  eat,  perching  himself  on  a  stool  at  my 
bedside,  so  that  he  can  conveniently  hand  me 
things. 

"And  a  nice  plump  egg  on  a  piece  of  toast!"  I 
mouth  joyously. 

"Aun'  Mandy  say  tell  you  dat  a  Shanghai  egg 
she  fin'  dis  mawnin'. " 

"It  surely  is  fresh,  then." 

"'Tain'  so  of  needcessity.  Ain'  yoheered  'bout 
de  Shanghai  chicken?"  T.  J.  R.  giggles. 

"No,  what  is  it?" 

He  rocks  himself  back  and  forth  on  his  stool,  as 

16 


242  Jfrom  a  g>outf)ern 


he  chants  a  "ballet"  concerning  the  fowl  in  ques 
tion. 

"Shanghai  chicken  an'  he  grow  so  tall, 

Hoo  day,  hoo  day! 
Takes  dat  egg  a  month  to  fall, 
Hoo  day,  hoo  day! 

Ol'  Satan  is  mad  an'  I  am  glad, 

Hoo  day,  hoo  day  ! 
He  lost  dat  soul  he  thought  he  had, 

Hoo  day,  hoo  day  ! 

When  I  went  down  in  de  valley  for  prayer, 

Hoo  day,  hoo  day! 
When  I  got  dere,  Mr.  Satan  was  dere, 

Hoo  day,  hoo  day! 

What  you  reckon  Mr.  Satan  say  ? 

Hoo  day,  hoo  day  ! 
'You're  too  young  to  moan  an'  pray,' 
Hoo  day,  hoo  day! 

Mr.  Shanghai  chicken,  you  look  so  keen, 

Hoo  day,  hoo  day  ! 
What  you  reckon  Mr.  Satan  mean? 

Hoo  day,  hoo  day!" 

"You  like  a  porched  egg,  doan'  you?"  Randy 
rolls  his  eyes  and  his  r's  at  the  same  time.  He 
usually  omits  his  r's,  but  he  puts  one  in  here  to 
make  up. 


(Eatmg  on  tfje  Porcfj  243 

"Yes,  I  do,  "I  assert. 

The  next  disclosure  is  batter-bread,  piping  hot, 
in  its  little  baking-dish.  I  put  butter  on  shame 
lessly  and  eat  it  with  the  crisp  frizzled  bacon  and 
the  coffee  from  the  tiny  blue  pot.  As  I  munch,  I 
ask  my  servitor  to  give  me  more  colored  songs, 
preferably  about  food.  There  are  many  such,  for 
the  darkey  is  fond  of  writing  about  what  really 
interests  him. 

"I  done  know  some  'bouten  de  possum,"  he 
concedes,  and  sings  the  following: 

"My  little  dog  begin  to  bark, 

Good-bye,  good-bye! 
Then  I  went  afoot  to  see. 
He  had  a  possum  up  de  tree, 
Good-bye,  Liza  Jane ! 

First  parboil  an'  bake  him  brown, 

Good-bye,  good-bye! 
An'  wid  taters  lay  him  roun', 

Good-bye,  Liza  Jane! 

Possum  meat  am  very  sweet, 

Good-bye,  good-bye! 
Possum  meat  am  good  to  eat, 

Good-bye,  Liza  Jane! 

Lay  dem  taters  in  de  pan, 
Good-bye,  good-bye! 


244  Jfrom  a  ^outjjern  $orclj 

Bestes  eatin'  in  de  Ian', 
Good-bye,  Liza  Jane! 

Possum  up  a  'simmon  tree, 

Good-bye,  good-bye, 
Possum  up  a  'simmon  tree, 

Good-bye,  Liza  Jane ! 

I'se  gwine  away  to  lef  you, 

Good-bye,  good-bye! 
I'se  gwine  away  to  lef  you, 

Good-bye,  Liza  Jane!" 

Thomas  Jefferson  Randolph  is  a  true  dramatic 
singer,  for  he  interprets  his  lays  with  appropriate 
gestures  and  expressions. 

"Give  me  another, "  I  urge,  in  applause,  whereat 
he  chants  a  second  song  about  Bre'r  Possum. 

"Jakey  went  a-huntin' 

One  moonshiny  night. 
Jakey  treed  a  possum 

'Way  up  outen  sight. 
Jakey  got  his  axe 

An'  he  begin  to  chop. 
He  said,  'Look  out,  little  chilluns, 

Somepin's  gwine  to  drop ! ' 

Bile  dat  possum, 

Bile  dat  possum  down. 
Bile  dat  possum, 

Bake  him  till  he's  brown. 


on  tfje  $ord)  245 


Won't  we  hab  a  good  ol'  time 
When  dat  possum  hits  de  groun'  ? 

Ef  you  wants  to  cook  dat  possum, 

I'll  tell  you  how  to  do. 
Put  him  in  a  fryin'  pan, 

Wid  sweet  taters,  too. 
Put  in  lots  ob  gravy, 

Right  next  to  de  crust. 
Den  we'll  eat  dat  possum, 

We'll  eat  him  'twell  we  bust! 

Bile  dat  possum, 

Bile  dat  possum  down. 
Bile  dat  possum, 

Bake  him  'twell  he's  brown. 
Won't  we  hab  a  good  ol'  time 

When  dat  possum  hits  de  groun'  ?" 

Much  of  the  negro  folk-song  consists  of  recitals 
of  the  pleasures  of  the  palate,  because  colored 
people  versify  about  subjects  of  genuine  interest, 
instead  of  what  they  think  would  genteelly  concern 
them.  One  reason  for  so  many  sorry  verses  among 
white  people  is  the  custom  of  attempting  to  poetize 
on  indifferent  subjects,  void  of  personal  interest. 
If  poets  would  be  sincere  with  themselves  and 
their  world,  and  would  sing  of  matters  that  really 
thrill  them,  like  cold  shower-baths,  for  instance, 
and  hot  broiled  steak,  and  waffles,  and  sleeping  on 


246  Jfrom  a  gxmtfjern 


the  porch,  and  the  first  green  corn  of  the  season, 
instead  of  sonneteering  over  eyebrows  and  parting 
sighs,  literature  would  have  much  more  flavor. 
The  poets  have  set  a  false  standard  of  values  upon 
details  of  life,  to  which  the  world  tamely  submits. 
What  a  revival  of  popular  interest  in  poetry  there 
would  be  if  writers  of  verse  concerned  themselves 
with  emotions  actually  dominant,  instead  of  those 
conventionally  supposititious  ! 

Now,  Thomas  Jefferson  Randolph,  being  chiefly 
interested  in  eating,  sings  of  food  and  the  joys  of 
consumption.  I,  being  of  sympathetic  palate, 
enjoy  his  ditties  and  call  for  a  third  helping. 

"Wake,  oh,  mistis,  peas  in  de  pot, 

Hoe-cake  bakin'  ! 
Master  had  a  dwellin'  house 

Sixteen  stories  high, 
An'  ebery  room  in  dat  house 

Was  filled  wid  pumpkin  pie. 

Ef  I  had  a  scoldin'  wife, 

Ez  sure  as  you  are  bawn, 
I'd  take  her  down  to  New  Orleans 

An'  trade  her  off  for  cawn  ! 
Wake,  oh,  mistis,  peas  in  de  pot, 

Hoe-cake  bakin'!" 

Presently,  having  eaten  enough  to  satisfy  even 
a  JeffersOnian  appetite,  I  rise  and  move  down- 


Cattng  on  tfje  $orcfj  247 

stairs  to  find  out  what  more  active  members 
of  the  household  are  engaged  in  doing.  I  settle 
myself  on  the  front  porch  in  my  couch,  and  swing 
lazily  to  and  fro.  After  a  while  Aunt  Mandy  comes 
out  with  a  plate  of  gingersnaps,  or  a  "sampler" 
of  the  cake  she  is  baking,  or  perhaps  the  crusty  end 
of  a  loaf  of  new-made  bread,  spread  thickly  with 
yellow  butter,  for  my  delectation. 

Later  in  the  morning  the  family  will  probably 
be  called  together  on  the  back  porch  to  eat  water 
melon,  Mose  having  sneaked  a  big  rattlesnake 
melon  in  the  "refrizerator"  the  night  before,  and 
summoning  us  for  a  surprise.  You  who  have 
eaten  watermelon  only  in  seemly  slices  at  the  din 
ner-table  know  nothing  of  its  lusciousness.  It 
should  be  eaten  by  one  leaning  over  the  rail  of  the 
porch,  or  better  still  in  a  large  bathtub.  You  bury 
your  face  in  it  if  you  wish,  and  you  eat  raptur 
ously  of  the  red  heart.  Somehow  you  never  get 
any  of  the  heart  of  watermelon  in  restaurants — 
perhaps  that  is  reserved  for  the  waiters  or  other 
millionaires. 

Mose  and  T.  J.  R.  and  Tishie  and  Aunt  Mandy 
are  also  eating  watermelon,  on  the  kitchen  porch. 
As  Mose  walks  off,  wiping  his  hands  and  his  red, 
turnover  lips,  on  his  sleeve,  he  sings, 


248  jftom  a  &outi)ern 


"De  ham-borne  am  sweet, 
De  possum  am  good, 

An'  de  chicken  meat  am  berry,  berry  fine. 
But  gimme,  oh,  gimme, 
Oh,  how  I  wish  you'd  gimme 
Dat  water-milyon  smilin'  on  de  vine!" 

Dinner  in  Virginia  comes  in  the  middle  of  the 
day.  Unless  there's  formal  company  here,  dinner 
is  served  on  the  side  porch,  so  that  we  may  see  the 
road  and  keep  up  with  the  passing  show  the  while 
we  eat,  a  costless  and  perpetually  changing 
cabaret.  Tish  gives  us  entertaining  information 
concerning  the  travelers,  as  well  as  of  the  sources  of 
the  food  we're  partaking  of.  There  may  be  Bruns 
wick  stew,  for  example.  I'm  satisfied  the  gods  on 
high  Olympus  had  Brunswick  stew  on  festival  oc 
casions,  though  it  couldn't  have  been  half  so  good 
as  this  prepared  by  Aunt  Mandy,  or  any  other 
elderly  colored  cook  in  Virginia.  Tishie  will  tell 
us  that  Aunt  Mandy  made  the  stew  because  Mose 
has  gone  hunting  the  day  before  and  shot  some 
squirrels.  Mose  isn't  allowed  to  touch  a  squirrel 
on  this  place,  but  who  could  prevent  his  going  into 
the  far  woods  ? 

There'll  be  various  vegetables  in  the  stew, 
corn,  okra,  and  so  forth.  I  cannot  give  you  the 


Bating  on  tfje  -porcfj  249 

recipe  for  it,  since  in  Virginia  cooking  is  done  by 
inspiration,  rather  than  by  rule  in  books,  and 
colored  women  are  convinced  that  measuring  would 
spoil  any  concoction.  Aunt  Mandy  will  tell  me 
that  she  takes  a  few  eggs,  some  milk,  about  so 
much  butter,  as  much  sugar  as  she  thinks  right, 
and  flour  and  flavoring  to  taste,  and  makes  a  cake. 
She  couldn't  follow  a  printed  recipe,  for  she  doesn't 
know  how  to  read,  and  so  she  measures  things  in 
her  head,  she  tells  me.  The  results  are  eminently 
satisfactory. 

If  there  isn't  Brunswick  stew,  there  is  likely  to  be 
fried  chicken,  especially  if  guests  are  here.  Aunt 
Mandy 's  favorite  saying  is,  "Company's  coming. 
I  got  to  kill  a  fried  chicken  an'  churn."  If  im 
portant  guests  are  announced  she  will  say,  "I'll 
hab  to  put  de  big  pot  in  de  little  one  an'  make  hash 
outen  de  dish-rag. ' ' 

Tishie  doesn't  know  that  servitors  are  not  ex 
pected  to  join  in  the  conversation,  for  when  we 
family  are  alone,  she  entertains  us  with  news  of  the 
barnyard  and  garden,  about  the  hawk  that  Mose 
almost  shot  yesterday,  or  the  weasel  that  got  into 
the  chicken  house  last  night  and  killed  some  prom 
ising  yellow-legged  pullets.  She  will  identify  the 
special  fowl  we  may  be  eating  in  some  such  fashion 


250  Jfrom  a  ^outfjern  |)orcf) 

as,  "Dishere  is  fum  de  incrubator  hatchin'  dat 
was  mos'ly  spiled  by  de  blastin',"  or  "Dishere  is 
is  one  ob  de  young  roosters  Mr.  Patrick  done  sont 
you  early  in  de  spring.  "  Or  maybe  she  breaks  to 
us  some  tragedy  as,  ' '  Dis  young  fool  rooster  wid  de 
yaller  laigs,  he  done  stan'  in  de  middle  ob  de  road 
to  crow  ober  an  ottermobile.  He  ain'  gwine  crow 
no  mo'.  Mose  seen  hit  an'  brung  him  to  de  house, 
an'  Aunt  Mandy,  she  popped  him  into  de  skillet. " 

We  grieve  resignedly  over  the  frustrated  pride, 
the  egocentric  energy  of  young  roosters,  and  yet 
the  curtailed  crow  seems  to  add  a  flavor  to  the  dish. 

There  are  Irish  potatoes  smothered  in  cream, 
potatoes  unqualified,  of  course,  meaning  sweet  po 
tatoes.  "Dey  is  fum  de  lazy-bed,"  Tishie  in 
forms  us. 

"What  is  a  lazy-bed?"  I  ask. 

"Wellum,  a  lazy  man's  potato  bed,  or  jes'  a 
lazy-bed,  as  we  ginerally  calls  hit,  am  a  bed  where 
de  potatoes  ain'  planted  but  dey  jes'  grows.  You 
git  hit  started  once,  an'  cover  hit  with  pine  tags, 
an'  don*  disturb  hit,  an'  de  taters  grow  corntinually 
fum  year  to  year.  Any  time  you  wants  any,  you 
kin  grub  down  in  dere  an'  git  some  young  new  po 
tatoes,  even  in  de  winter  time.  Mose,  he  got  a 
lazy-bed  back  ob  de  'lasses  cane. " 


€ating  on  tije  $orcfj  251 

There's  sure  to  be  young  corn  cooked  in  some 
delicious  way,  since  Mose  plants  corn  every  two 
weeks  during  the  summer,  to  guarantee  a  proper 
supply  of  roasting  ears.  Of  course,  we  have  corn 
bread,  because  Southerners  have  always  loved  it. 
We  didn't  have  to  wait  for  the  exigencies  of  war 
time  to  learn  to  eat  corn  bread.  It  amused  us  to 
read  those  anxious  editorials  in  Northern  papers, 
urging  the  attractions  of  corn  bread.  Who  has 
eaten  it  made  by  a  Southern  darkey  has  tasted 
one  of  life's  chief  joys.  There's  egg  bread,  made 
with  egg  and  buttermilk,  baked  in  a  pan,  or  in 
little  sticks  so  that  those  who  like  crust  may  have 
it  in  abundance.  Aunt  Mandy  also  makes  corn 
pone,  or  ' 'dodger,"  with  meal  and  hot  water  and 
salt,  shaping  it  into  little  cakes.  Bread  of  the 
North  was  never  like  it ! 

Rice  is  another  thing  that  Northern  editors  dis 
covered  for  the  purpose  of  saving  wheat.  But 
only  a  Southerner  knows  how  to  cook  it  with  each 
grain  separate,  since  the  South  has  loved  it  for 
generations.  For  dessert  we  may  have  blackberry 
cobbler,  made  from  berries  T.  J.  R.  and  I  may  have 
picked  in  the  woods,  or  there  may  be  raspberries 
and  cream,  or  any  one  of  a  number  of  delicious 
things  Aunt  Mandy  knows  how  to  make. 


252  Jfrom  a  gxmtfjern 


There  will  be  an  extra  place  at  the  table  for  the 
unexpected  guest,  who  is  usually  here,  for  while 
hospitality  is  almost  obsolete  in  some  sections  of 
the  country,  it  is  not  so  in  the  South.  Southern 
hospitality  is  a  delightful  thing  in  many  ways,  but 
countless  crimes  are  committed  in  its  name. 

After  dinner  we  all  move  out  to  the  front  porch, 
where  the  men  smoke  fat  cigars,  and  the  women 
exchange  confidences  concerning  methods  of  can 
ning.  I  release  my  mind  on  little  excursions  of  its 
own,  and  am  only  half  aware  of  conversations  that 
blend  into  each  other  in  my  ears,  so  that  I  overhear 
snatches  of  suggestions  that  the  cold-pack  method 
is  the  best  way  to  can  stubborn  politicians  in  dry 
weather,  and  that  tomatoes  should  have  four  rows 
of  purling  three  days  in  succession  to  kill  the 
germs. 

Presently  I  leave  the  enthusiasts  talking,  and  go 
up  to  my  sleeping-porch  for  a  nap,  but  still  into  my 
ears  pours  the  flood  of  conversation,  lulling  me  into 
slumber. 

I  am  awakened  by  the  uphill  snort  of  an  auto, 
which  means  that  afternoon  callers  are  arriving. 
It  is  a  beautiful  blonde  afternoon,  with  blue  eyes 
and  sunshine  hair,  and  so  everybody  feels  like 
getting  out  into  the  country  to  behold  it.  And,  of 


Cating  on  tfje  $orc()  253 

course,  the  fresh  air  has  given  everyone  an  ap 
petite,  so  Tish  trundles  out  the  tea  wagon,  and  we 
eat  once  more.  Those  who  do  not  care  for  hot  tea 
may  have  tea  in  glasses  with  mint  and  crushed  ice. 
What  conceivable  sound  is  more  musical  than  the 
tinkle  of  ice  in  the  glasses  on  a  warm  afternoon? 
And  what  colors  more  attractive  than  the  amber 
and  soft  green  together?  Or  perhaps  there's 
grape  juice,  a  beverage  that  we've  made  ourselves 
from  grapes  that  T.  J.  R.  and  I  have  gathered 
from  the  arbor,  so  that  all  manner  of  associations 
cluster  round  it.  There  are  little  cakes,  and 
divers  sandwiches  that  Aunt  Mandy's  unlettered 
hands  know  how  to  fashion  cunningly.  I  do  think 
that  if  Aunt  Mandy  learned  to  read,  her  bread 
wouldn't  be  half  so  light  as  it  is ! 

The  Doctor  usually  drops  in  from  visiting  a 
country  patient — since  he  is  most  devoted  to  his 
illnesses  in  this  section  of  the  country.  He  expertly 
passes  the  tea  things,  with  jocular  conversation. 
The  Professor,  on  the  other  hand,  sits  a  little 
apart  from  the  crowd  and  talks  to  me,  while  he 
looks  at  Lucia.  Lucia,  perverse  creature,  talks 
brightly  to  the  Doctor,  with  only  an  occasional, 
quickly  withdrawn  glance  at  our  part  of  the 
porch. 


254  Jfrom  a  ibout&ern 


"Why  does  she  dislike  me  so?"  he  murmurs 
wistfully. 

"Because  she  doesn't!"  I  answer  promptly. 
"If  she  hated  you,  the  chances  are  she'd  be 
beautifully  courteous  to  you.  She's  afraid  of 
you,  and  I  think  she  doesn't  wish  to  fall  in 
love  perhaps.  Perhaps  she  feels  herself  teeter 
ing  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice  and  she's  leaning 
backward  to  catch  herself,  to  keep  her  balance. 
Possibly  I've  done  you  an  injustice  by  advocating 
your  cause.  I  think  I'll  try  abusing  you,  and  see 
how  that  works." 

"What  can  I  do?"  his  blue  eyes  ask  me. 

"Just  wait,  "  I  caution  him  between  bites  of  sand 
wich.  '  '  But  don't  wait  —  too  long  !  '  ' 

We  sit  in  silence  for  a  moment,  then  turn  to 
listen  to  the  mocking  bird  perched  on  a  sway 
ing  rose  vine,  singing  a  golden  song  to  his 
mate. 

"How  I  envy  him  his  readiness  of  speech!"  the 
Professor  grumbles.  "He's  quite  a  clever  phrase- 
maker,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes,  but  he's  such  a  plagiarist,"  I  argue. 
"Those  creatures  to  whom  rhapsodies  come  so 
easily  are  usually  speaking  more  from  imitation 
than  emotion.  All  the  same,  it  wouldn't  hurt  you 


on  tfje  $orcf)  255 


to  practice  a  little  song  against  the  time  you'll  feel 
impelled  to  sing." 

Supper  is  served  on  the  side-porch,  except  on 
Sunday  night  when  the  colored  folk  are  gone,  when 
we  have  cold  supper  from  the  tea  wagon  anywhere 
we  happen  to  be.  At  ordinary  suppers  there  are 
all  sorts  of  delicious  things,  waffles,  with  honey, 
or  Sally  Lunn,  light  as  down.  One  young  fellow 
who  was  here  the  other  night,  tasting  it  for  the 
first  time,  laughed  and  on  being  pressed  for  an 
answer,  said,  "You  know  my  father  used  to  live 
in  Virginia  when  he  was  young',  and  I've  heard  him 
say  so  often  how  he  loved  Sally  Lunn,  but  I  thought 
she  was  an  old  sweetheart  of  his.  To  think  it's 
just  a  bread!" 

There  may  be  broiled  chicken,  or  a  young  rabbit 
that  Mose  has  caught  trespassing  in  the  garden. 
There'll  be  sweet  potatoes  cooked  in  some  appetiz 
ing  way.  I  think  sweet  potatoes  give  me  more 
constant  pleasure  than  any  other  form  of  food,  and 
a  world  without  them  would  be  less  joyous  for  me 
than  it  is.  But  I  cannot  enumerate  the  good 
things  that  Aunt  Mandy  might  give  us  for  supper, 
for  she  is  versatile,  and  has  country  resources  to 
draw  upon.  Whatever  we  have,  anyhow,  taste 


256  Jftom  a  ^outfjern 


better  for  being  eaten  in  the  open,  with  the  pine 
trees  talking  to  us,  and  the  sleepy  sounds  of  chick 
ens  going  to  bed,  and  the  effervescent  yelps  of 
puppies  sounding  in  our  ears. 

I  love  James  Whitcomb  Riley's  little  poem, 
When  We  Et  out  on  the  Porch.  Eating  is  a  social 
rite  made  more  enjoyable  by  being  shared  with 
Nature  herself.  It  is  Nature  who  gives  us  what  we 
eat,  and  to  dine  or  sup  in  her  benignant  presence 
makes  us  doubly  blessed.  When  you  break 
bread  with  a  friend,  or  a  chance  comer  who  per 
haps  needs  your  help,  you  share  more  than  food 
with  him,  if  you  eat  on  the  porch.  You  share 
with  him  the  earth  and  the  beauty  thereof,  the 
sky,  and  what  lies  beyond  it.  When  you  bow 
your  head  to  render  thanks  to  Him  who  gave 
the  food,  you  seem  more  in  His  presence  in  the 
open  than  when  shut  in  secret  rooms.  There 
is  an  out-of-door  grace  that  niggard  walls  never 
know. 

After  I  have  gone  to  bed,  Lucia  slips  in  to  bring 
me  a  box  of  candy  that  the  Doctor  has  brought  me, 
knowing  I  love  to  eat  in  bed.  She  sits  down  on 
the  little  stool  beside  the  bed,  with  hands  folded 
restlessly  in  her  lap. 


Catmg  on  tfje  $orcfj  257 

"I  think  I'm  going  to  marry  the  Doctor,"  she 
says  in  a  low  voice,  after  a  while. 

"You  are  not ! "  I  cry,  sitting  bolt  upright,  full  of 
rage  and  caramel.  "You  shan't  marry  the  man 
that  killed  my  pet  frog — my  poor,  affectionate  little 
frog  that  never  did  anybody  any  harm !  Besides — 
he  wouldn't  make  you  happy!" 

"What  is  happiness?"  she  answers  listlessly. 
"Anyhow,  he  didn't  intend  to  hurt  Nip." 

"Don't  tell  me! "  I  contend  with  heat.  "Aren't 
Doctors  always  experimenting  with  frogs  in  a  per 
fectly  cold-blooded  fashion?  And  he  never  has 
seemed  repentant  enough — he  thinks  it  a  joke! 
Happiness  my  love,  is  dependent  on  the  nature  of 
your  husband's  sense  of  humor!" 

"You'd  like  me  to  marry  into  a  Boston  cemetery, 
I  suppose!"  she  says  sarcastically. 

"Better  that  than  a  Virginia  laboratory!"  I 
retort,  crunching  the  Doctor's  chocolates  with  un 
grateful  relish.  "Hasn't  that  tombstone  read  you 
an  inscription  yet?" 

"Not  a  word!" 

"Well,  I'll  admit  that's  rather  slow,  even  for 
Boston.     But  then  he  hasn't  had  as  much  practice 
in  proposing  as  that  light-tongued  Doctor.     But 
just  remember  that  he's  from  Boston. " 
17 


258  Jfrom  a  ^outfjern  JOorcfj 

"I  certainly  shall!"  she  says  distinctly,  as  she 
turns  to  go.  "I  wouldn't  eat  too  much  of  that 
candy  if  I  were  you,  especially  when  you  entertain 
such  emotions  of  rage  toward  the  giver.  Anger  is 
bad  for  the  digestion,  you  know." 

"You  talk  like  a  doctor's  wife  already!"  I  cry. 
"Go !  I  dislike  you.  You  haven't  told  the  Doctor 
you're  thinking  of  marrying  him,  have  you?"  I 
hurl  after  her. 

"No,  he  just  keeps  on  telling  me." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right  then, "  I  murmur  to  the  box 
of  candy,  and  go  to  sleep  to  dream  of  caramels  in 
the  shape  of  tombstones  with  fervid  inscriptions. 


SLEEPING  OUT 

SLEEPING  on  a  country  porch  is  so  delightful  an 
experience  that  one  really  should  stay  awake  all 
night  to  get  the  full  pleasure  of  it.  One  realizes 
the  world  and  feels  the  sensuous  magic  of  it  more 
when  one  is  half  asleep,  than  when  one  is  fully 
awake.  Perhaps  then  the  intellect,  the  cold 
mechanism  of  logic,  is  disregarded,  and  one  merely 
feels,  but  feels  in  a  subliminated  way.  The  ave 
nues  of  the  senses  are  wide  open,  and  through  the 
sight,  the  sound,  the  smell,  the  touch,  one  is  made 
aware  of  the  enchanted  world  without.  Sleep  is 
not  a  tyrant  to  be  resisted,  as  by  a  child  afraid  of 
missing  something  if  he  goes  to  bed,  or  a  wraith  to 
be  hopelessly  pursued,  as  by  an  insomniac,  but 
a  lovely  being,  lingering  near,  but  not  intrusive. 
On  a  country  porch  one  does  not  feel  the  bitterness 
of  waking  up  as  in  the  inside  of  a  house,  especially 
in  the  city,  where  one  feels  that  one  has  not  slept 
enough,  yet  must  arise  to  work.  Sleep  in  the  open 

259 


26o  Jfrom  a  gxmtfjern 


is  much  more  restorative,  so  that  one  needs  less 
of  it  and  hence  can  give  a  portion  of  the  night  to 
pure  enjoyment  of  his  sensations.  . 

The  porch  on  which  I  sleep  is  on  the  side  of 
the  house,  so  that  I  am  near  both  the  front  and  the 
back,  can  hear  the  sounds  from  the  farmyard,  from 
the  roadway,  and  from  the  lake  as  well.  I  love  to 
lie  dreamily  and  analyze  the  sounds  I  hear.  The 
country  is  supposed  to  be  quiet  in  comparison  with 
the  city,  but  it  is  full  of  half  -distinguishable  noises, 
all  restful  to  the  nerves.  The  bullfrogs  in  the  lake 
give  their  booming  croaks  at  intervals  through  the 
night,  deep  bassos  that  no  human  throat  can  repro 
duce;  the  crickets  sleepily  chirp  as  if  on  watch,  and 
from  some  tree  near  by  sounds  the  eerie  tremulo  of 
the  screech-owl,  with  its  musical,  premonitory  note 
of  woe.  The  mocking  bird,  waked  by  the  weight 
of  emotion  its  little  breast  can  no  longer  bear, 
seeks  relief  in  expression,  in  a  dream-haunted 
song. 

Hark!  through  the  dark 

And  moonless  magic  of  the  night, 

That  yet  with  faint,  suffused  light  is  bright, 

From  where  on  high  sphereth  the  star-sown  sky, 

Is  tremulous  heard 

The  mocking  bird! 


^bleeping  tf^ut  261 


Hear!  through  the  clear 

Hushed  stillness  of  the  lonely  hour, 

With  what  immortal  power  down  shower 

Such  lyric  rhapsodies !  such  ecstasies 

Of  golden  joy 

His  notes  employ! 

Lo!  sad  and  slow 

Heart-broken  strains  of  woe  are  wrung 

As  when  by  tremulous  tongue  of  age  are  sung 

The  elegies  of  well-beloved  youth,  the  ruth 

Of  sorrow's  load, 

Grief's  palinode! 

Love,  joyous  love, 

Is  now  his  passion-thrilled  theme, 

The  wakeful  wonder  of  his  dream  supreme. 

He  darkling  gropes  to  dim,  delirious  hopes, 

And  trembling  pleads 

All  love's  sweet  needs. 

How  mayest  thou 

The  cycle  of  all  human  feeling  voice, 

Grieve  with  the  bereaven,  rejoice  with  dulcet  joys? 

Is  thy  song,  then,  vicarious,  for  us? 

Sing  undeterred, 

Oh,  poet  bird! 

From  far  across  the  fields  comes  the  cry  of  a 
pack  of  hounds  as  they  start  on  a  fox  hunt,  their 
deep- voiced  ululations  rising  and  falling  in  melan- 


262  Jfrom  a  iboutfjern 


choly  intonations,  to  be  answered  by  the  voices  of 
the  other  hounds  near  by.  The  cry  of  a  hound  is 
a  pathetic,  wild  music  unlike  anything  else.  It 
sounds  as  if  wrung  from  the  heart  of  a  captive 
creature,  but  the  fox  says  nothing,  curiously 
enough  ! 

I  can  hear  a  troop  of  negroes  passing  along  the 
road,  singing  as  they  go  home  from  some  colored 
gathering,  their  rich,  mournful  voices  making 
haunting  echoes  in  the  heart.  The  negro  is  so 
religious  in  a  pagan  way  that  he  puts  his  whole 
heart  into  crude  folk-songs  and  hymns  in  a  manner 
to  shake  the  soul  of  any  hearer.  I  forget  the  child 
like  absurdities  of  the  language,  and  feel  only, 
"This  is  real  music  and  real  religion!"  One  who 
has  never  heard  a  band  of  old-fashioned  negroes 
singing  such  hymns  as  "Roll,  Jordan,  Roll,"  or 
"Pharaoh's  Army"  has  missed  the  sweetest  thrill 
that  harmony  can  give.  The  chant  floats  up  to  me, 

"Oh,  Mary,  don't  you  weep  no  more, 
Don't  you  moan  ! 

Pharaoh's  army  got  drownded  in  de  Red  Sea  — 
Oh,  Mary,  don't  you  weep,  don't  you  moan! 

Some  ob  dese  mawnin's  bright  an'  fair, 
I'll  take  my  wings  an'  cleave  de  air; 


263 


Pharaoh's  army  got  drownded  in  de  Red  Sea, 
Oh,  Mary,  don't  you  weep,  don't  you  moan! 

When  I  get  to  Hebben,  I'm  gwine  to  put  on  my  shoes, 
I'm  gwine  roun'  Glory  an'  tell  all  de  news; 
Pharaoh's  army  got  drownded  in  de  Red  Sea, 
Oh,  Mary,  don't  you  weep,  don't  you  moan! 

When  I  get  to  Hebben  I'm  gwine  to  sing  an'  shout; 
Dey's  no  one  dere  to  turn  me  out; 
Pharaoh's  army  got  drownded  in  de  Red  Sea — 
Oh,  Mary,  don't  you  weep,  don't  you  moan!" 

Sometimes,  we  are  wakened  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  to  hear  guitars,  and  unformed  young  voices 
singing  about  love  and  other  such  inconsequential 
matters,  at  which  the  young  girls  in  the  house 
twitter  excitedly,  but  I  go  off  again  into  dreams. 
I  love  to  dream  at  such  a  time,  for  the  dreams  woven 
about  a  serenade  are  lovelier  than  the  serenade 
itself. 

The  early  morning  sounds  are  as  captivating  as 
those  of  the  night,  for  a  rose- vine  taps  at  my  screen 
to  summon  me  for  a  new  day,  and  a  fat  rosebud 
peers  in  to  see  if  I  am  awake  or  only  pretending. 
The  birds  are  up  early,  and  have  all  manner  of 
matutinal  confidences  to  exchange.  Presently  I 
can  hear  the  chickens  stir,  and  a  young  rooster, 
swelling  with  importance,  announces  the  dawn, 


264  Jfrom  a  ^outfjern  $orcJ) 

whereat  the  hens  cackle  for  their  breakfast.  The 
ducks,  released  from  overnight  confinement,  start 
down  the  hill  in  enfilade,  to  spend  the  day  on  the 
lake,  quacking  as  they  go,  Quack  .  .  .  quack 
.  .  .  quack.  The  guinea's  pot-rack,  pot-rack, 
is  answered  by  the  turkey's  gobble — gobble  as  the 
fowls  scatter  for  the  day.  Quack  .  .  .  quack 
.  .  .  pot-rack  .  .  .  pot-rack  .  .  .  gobble — gob 
ble — .  Aunt  Mandy  is  to  be  heard  making  break 
fast  stirrings,  singing  a  few  stanzes  of  one  of  her 
endless  songs : 

"Angel  come  down  an'  trouble  de  waters, 
Angel  come  down  an'  trouble  de  waters, 
Angel  come  down  an'  trouble  de  waters, 
It's  de  day  ob  Jubilee! 

Rise,  shine  an*  gib  God  de  glory, 
Rise,  shine  an'  gib  God  de  glory, 
Rise,  shine  an'  gib  God  de  glory, 
It 'sde  day  ob  Jubilee!" 

Mose  is  chopping  wood,  his  rhythmic  strokes  ac 
companied  by  a  song  with  a  monotonous  refrain. 

"I  don't  like  to  work,  but  I  needs  de  arns, 
I  don't  like  to  work  but  I  needs  de  arns, 
I  don't  like  to  work,  but  I  needs  de  arns." 


Sleeping  Out  265 


The  scents  of  the  night  and  of  the  very  early 
morning  are  particularly  pleasant,  for  the  dew 
brings  out  a  sweetness  unknown  by  day,  I  think, 
and  all  the  garden  odors  float  up  to  me,  mingled 
with  the  scent  of  clover  blossoms,  and  the  perfume 
of  wet  pine  boughs.  My  dreams  are  perfumed,  as 
never  in  the  city.  Sometimes  I  lie  awake  and  try 
to  single  out  the  various  scents,  seeking  to  distin 
guish  the  individual  sweetness  of  each  thing,  then 
again  enjoying  the  composite  bouquet.  The  scent 
of  the  star- jasmine  comes  stealing  up  from  the  vine 
clinging  to  the  trellis  on  the  wall,  and  the  odor  of 
the  wild  honeysuckle  is  unmistakable,  while  the 
sweet  basil  in  the  flower-beds  below  sends  up  a 
spicy  richness.  When  there  is  rain,  the  odors  are 
more  clearly  distinguishable  than  at  other  times. 

I  love  the  feel  of  the  cool  wind  on  my  cheeks  and 
the  luxury  of  it  in  my  lungs.  My  lungs,  that  in 
winter  are  subwayward,  expand  on  the  porch  in  a 
happy  fullness  of  life.  I  love  the  touch  of  the  little 
ambiguous  breezes  that  steal  about  my  pillow,  and 
the  occasional  spray  of  rain  that  comes  in  upon  me 
through  the  screen.  I  lie  with  half -shut  eyes  to 
watch  the  sleazy  little  rain  falling,  and  see  the  big 
drops  roll  down  from  the  eaves.  Rain  in  the  coun 
try  is  far  more  companionable  a  thing  than  it  is 


266  Jfrom  a  ibcmtfjern 


in  the  city.  In  town,  one  wishes  to  come  in  out  of 
the  rain,  but  in  the  country,  one  feels  the  impulse 
to  get  out  into  it. 

I  love  the  pictures  that  the  night  brings  to  my 
porch  pillow,  the  exhibit  hung  on  the  line  outside 
for  me  to  see.  The  trees  are  sprangled  against  the 
sky,  like  quaint  Japanese  prints,  the  poplars  with 
their  great  pointing  pencils  lifted  upward,  the 
oaks  with  heavy  draperies  about  them,  the  pines 
with  swaying  tops,  the  younger  trees,  more  emo 
tional  with  rocking  arms.  Against  the  sky  is  the 
soft  glow  in  the  clouds,  above  where  the  city's 
lights  are  shining  through  the  distance  and  the 
dark.  The  pictures  change  night  by  night,  ac 
cording  to  the  notion  of  the  moon.  Sometimes 
there's  a  flame-colored  moon  that  floats  up  the 
sky  over  the  tops  of  the  trees,  like  a  child's  bright 
balloon  that  has  escaped  and  gone  to  seek  the  stars. 
Sometimes  there's  a  moon  all  pale,  shedding  a 
cool  radiance  on  the  lake,  touching  the  reeds  by 
the  water's  edge  to  an  unearthly  beauty.  Some 
times  the  moon  is  a  cryptic  stone,  covered  with 
magic  runes,  and  sometimes  it  is  a  curved  spear. 
There  are  nights  when  there's  no  moon  at  all, 
when  the  heavens  are  dark,  and  others  when  the 
tinsel  stars  spangle  the  black  sky,  as  if  a  widow 


267 


should  strew  little  gold  flowers  all  over  her  crepe 
veil. 

The  physical  and  mental  sensations  of  dropping 
off  to  sleep  on  a  porch  in  the  country  are  altogether 
pleasant.  I  look  with  sleepy  gaze  to  the  lake 
where  I  see  a  little  boat  stealing  across  the  silver 
bands  of  moonlight.  Presently  I  feel  myself  in 
that  little  boat,  swaying,  swaying,  drifting,  drifting. 
The  lake  expands  insensibly,  and  I  am  on  the  ocean 
in  a  wave-rocked  boat  of  dreams.  I  float  forever 
in  a  wide  and  quiet  sea,  while  aeons  roll  and  roll 
past  me.  My  boat  is  submerged,  and  I  sink  to 
soundless  depths,  to  blue  miracles  of  water,  down, 
down,  down — so  that  I  am  drowned  in  seas  of  sleep, 
a  delicious  drowning,  in  which  all  life's  happinesses 
sweep  before  me.  Drowned  .  .  .  deliciously. 

I  am  in  a  cosmic  cradle,  crooned  over  by  swaying 
winds.  In  that  mystic  chant  I  sense  the  meaning 
of  all  earth's  riddles,  am  steeped  in  all  mortal 
sweetnesses,  hear  all  the  world's  harmonies  upgath- 
ered  into  one,  and  meant  for  me  alone.  I  am 
swayed  to  and  fro  on  the  tops  of  gentle  trees,  trees 
I  have  always  loved  from  a  distance  and  never  been 
quite  able  to  reach  before,  friendly  trees  that  take 
me  into  their  confidence  and  make  me  wise  of  se 
crets  never  known  before.  How  sage  are  trees,  and 


268  jfrom  a  gxratfrem 


how  benignant  !  How  soft  their  rocking  arms,  how 
safe  their  mighty  clasp  ! 

I  am  borne  languorously  on  those  white  clouds 
along  the  Milky  Way,  sweeping  with  light  majesty 
over  sleeping  cities  that  have  no  knowledge  of  my 
passing,  past  spires  of  country  churches,  and  rivers 
flowing  to  the  sea,  and  mountains  that  forever 
stand  in  silence  and  in  thought.  How  wonderful  is 
silence  and  how  supreme  is  thought  —  if  only  man 
could  know  ! 

I  lie  on  the  grass  strewn  with  perfumed  clover 
and  listen  to  the  grass  blades  whispering  as  they 
grow.  I  rise  upward  on  the  mist  that  floats  above 
the  lake,  and  slide  down  starbeams.  I  know  all 
things,  and  feel  all  things,  and  am  at  one  with  all, 
as  I  sleep  .  .  .  sleep  .  .  .  sleep. 

Porch  dreams  are  delectable  experiences,  very 
different  from  the  drugged  unconsciousness  of  in 
door  sleep,  or  the  morbid  nightmares  that  infest 
the  walls  of  houses.  I  am  always  happy  in  my 
porch  dreams,  am  always  clutching  some  longed- 
for  joy,  or  realizing  some  erstwhile  denied  ambition, 
or  discovering  in  myself  new  powers  that  I  have  not 
hitherto  been  aware  of.  I  have  new  sensations, 
such  as  riding  in  an  aeroplane  and  racing  with  an 
eagle  through  the  blue,  blue  sky  or  skiing,  skiing 


269 


gaily  down  some  unresisting  slope  of  snow  like 
nonchalant  lightning,  or  playing  a  fugue  on  a  pipe 
organ,  or  singing  in  a  golden  voice.  That  is  one 
of  my  favorite  dreams !  Another  is  fancying  that 
I  wake  up  to  find  that  my  eyes  are  brown,  as  all  my 
life  I've  wished  they  were. 

Then  again  I  have  dreams  that  are  purely  enter 
taining,  not  realizing  any  heart's  desire,  but  merely 
pastime  visions,  which  are  sometimes  clearly  trace 
able  to  my  late  reading  in  bed.  For  instance,  I 
had  a  curious  dream  not  long  ago,  after  reading  in 
the  dictionary  just  before  I  went  to  sleep — for 
there's  no  book  that  gives  me  more  pleasure  than 
the  dictionary,  despite  its  frequent  change  of  sub 
ject.  I  love  to  study  words  and  their  whimsical 
ways,  since  they  are  such  living  things  and  so 
sensitive.  They  have  such  a  strict  code  as  to  their 
respective  duties  and  resent  being  made  to  serve 
in  the  place  of  others  as  strongly  as  did  the  ser 
vants  of  the  Spanish  king  who  was  allowed  to  die 
of  chill  (or  was  it  over  heat?)  because  no  one  of 
the  roomful  of  courtiers  about  him  would  poke  the 
fire  in  the  temporary  absence  of  the  one  person 
whose  duty  it  was  to  look  after  it. 

I  dreamed  that  I  was  at  a  word-party  given  by 
several  famous  lexicographers,  to  which  all  the 


270  Jfrom  a  iboutfrern 


words  were  bidden.  Anglo-Saxon  words  were 
there  in  their  homespun  garments,  while  the 
Norman  French  terms  were  haughty  in  their  silks 
and  satins,  and  the  modern  slang  jostled  them 
rudely  aside,  clad  in  gay  sports  clothes.  Each  word 
was  dressed  in  the  costume  of  its  native  coun 
try,  so  the  scene  was  varied  and  lively.  Archaic 
words,  ancient,  aged  crones  leaning  on  sticks, 
hobbled  about,  while  vulgar  new  words  elbowed 
their  way  into  the  society  of  their  betters.  There 
were  even  the  dead  words  there,  shrouded  and 
coffined,  but  still  insisting  on  being  kept  in  the 
dictionary. 

Some  carried  musical  instruments  that  gave 
pleasing  sounds,  while  others  had  contrivances 
that  made  harsh  noises;  some  moved  trippingly 
on  the  tongue,  while  others  stalked  haughtily,  and 
others  awkwardly  stumbled.  There  were  words 
from  the  same  family  gathered  together  in  groups, 
while  the  ancientest  grandsire  words,  mere  San 
skrit  roots,  kept  off  to  themselves,  as  if  astonished 
and  dismayed  to  see  what  they  were  responsible 
for. 

I  saw  a  few  words  that  hung  shamefacedly  in  the 
corner  and,  "Who  are  they?"  I  asked  Sir  James 
Murray,  who  was  talking  with  Noah  Webster. 


271 


"They  are  words  that  have  no  right  to  exist 
ence,"  he  explained,  "formed  from  a  union  of 
words  that  do  not  belong  together. " 

"Poor  things!"  I  cried  in  pity. 

"Yes,  but  we  must  preserve  the  standards  of  the 
language." 

While  I  looked  at  them,  those  words  faded  away, 
the  adjectives  lost  their  bright  colorful  character, 
the  verbs  became  less  virile,  and  all  of  the  bril 
liant  company  melted  into  printer's  ink  before  my 
very  eyes,  my  eyes  that  I  rubbed  incredulously. 

Another  porch  dream  I  had  recently  was  discon 
certing,  but  possessing  nothing  of  the  morbidity 
of  house  dreams.  I  dreamed  that  I  dreamed,  and 
knew  that  my  dreams  had  a  curious,  compelling, 
prophetic  power  over  my  actions.  What  I  dreamed 
I  was,  I  immediately  became  on  waking,  and  like 
wise  what  I  fancied  in  my  sleep  that  I  did,  I  was 
compelled  to  do  as  soon  as  I  woke  up.  I  visioned 
myself,  for  instance,  as  clad  in  cap  and  gown  and 
hood,  marching  in  commencement  procession  at 
my  university,  only  to  discover,  just  as  I  was  step 
ping  on  the  platform  reserved  for  members  of  the 
faculty,  that  I  was  barefooted.  That  universal 
dream  ordinarily  would  evoke  only  a  laugh,  and  a 
waking  sense  of  relief  that  it  was  not  true.  Not  so 


272  Jftom  a  ^outfjetn  Jporcij 

in  this  case !  As  soon  as  I  waked  from  my  dream 
within  my  dream,  I  was  forced  by  strange  require 
ment  to  go  through  the  actual  experience,  to  march 
across  the  platform,  my  bare  toes  wiggling  in  an 
guish  under  the  cold,  disapproving  stare  of  the 
president. 

And  not  only  did  my  own  dreams  control  my 
waking  actions,  but  my  dreams  of  others  governed 
them  and  vice  versa.  If  I  dreamed,  for  example, 
that  I  met  Lord  Dunsany,  clad  in  tiger  skins,  and 
playing  pipes  of  Pan,  walking  down  Fifth  Avenue, 
and  that  I  trotted  along  beside  him,  telling  how 
much  I  liked  his  wonder  tales,  I  must  see  the  per 
formance  through,  no  matter  how  Lord  Dunsany 
might  protest.  And  similarly,  other  people's 
dreams  of  me  caused  me  to  act  quite  out  of  char 
acter.  Altogether,  life  held  a  variableness  and  un 
certainty  that  I  found  entertaining  but  alarming, 
and  I  was  glad  on  the  whole  to  wake  from  my  double 
dream  to  find  that  I  was  captain  of  my  fate.  The 
only  thing  I  regretted,  however,  was  that  during 
that  magic  interval  I  didn't  have  the  forethought 
to  dream  some  useful  dreams  concerning  editors, 
and  other  pleasant  dispensers  of  life's  bonuses. 

The  nightmares  that  infest  house  sleep  usually 
bring  one  back  to  consciousness  with  a  start,  with 


273 


a  dreadful  sense  of  horror  past  or  to  come,  and  at 
least  partially  present,  but  porch  dreams  leave  a 
lingering  sense  of  pleasure.  And  one  slides  so 
gently  back  into  slumber  that  one  dream  melts 
into  another. 

I  have  been  interested  to  test  my  goings  to  sleep 
and  my  wakings  up,  to  find  which  of  my  senses 
leaves  me  first,  which  lingers  with  me  longest. 
Of  course,  when  I  am  just  dropping  out  of  conscious 
ness,  I  have  no  pencil  in  hand  to  take  notes,  and  the 
concepts  I  form  are  likely  to  be  blurred  before  I 
get  round  to  recording  them,  but  a  few  things  I 
have  observed.  I  notice  that  I  first  lose  the  sense 
of  sight,  that  is,  my  eyes  close  first,  and  I  am  too 
drowsy  to  see  anything  distinctly,  even  when  I  am 
conscious  of  scents  and  sounds  and  the  feel  of  the 
wind  on  my  face.  That  may,  of  course,  be 
due  to  the  fact  that  my  eyes  have  curtains  that 
automatically  adjust  themselves,  blinds  that  draw 
themselves,  while  the  ears  have  no  such  mechanism 
but  must  remain  open  to  sensations  till  the  brain 
itself  goes  to  sleep.  If  I  doze  off  to  sleep,  for  in 
stance,  with  a  chocolate  drop  in  my  mouth  (oh, 
I  know  it's  a  reprehensible  habit  and  designed  to 
enrich  the  dentist,  but  I  am  as  I  am !) ,  I  lose  the 
sense  of  taste  soon  after  my  eyelids  close.  But  I 
it 


274  Jfrom  a  gxmtfjern 


can  still  smell  the  honeysuckle  or  the  clover  after 
I  have  forgotten  how  the  chocolate  tastes,  though 
not  so  long  as  I  can  feel  the  soft  wind  flutter  my 
hair  and  brush  my  cheek.  Through  the  passing  of 
all  these  sensations  I  can  still  distinguish  sounds. 
still  hear  the  cricket  chirping,  still  hear  the  occa 
sional  whimper  of  a  hound  in  the  kennel,  still  hear 
the  boom  of  the  bullfrog  in  the  lake.  When  I  stop 
hearing  that  frog  and  that  dog,  I  know  I'm  gone 
for  the  night! 

I  wake  up  in  the  inverse  order,  being  able  to  hear 
before  I  distinguish  scent  or  taste  or  touch.  The 
rattle  of  dishes  comes  to  me  from  the  dining-room 
before  the  scent  of  breakfast  coffee,  and  I  feel  the 
sunbeam  on  my  cheek  before  I  open  my  eyes  to 
see  anything.  I  wonder  which  of  the  senses  is 
the  first  to  leave  a  dying  person  —  which  the  last  ! 
Which  sense  will  be  the  first  to  wake  to  a  fairer 
day?  Or  perhaps  then  our  senses  will  not  be 
controlled  by  the  brain,  but  by  the  heart,  and 
all  respond  at  once.  I  wonder! 

The  porch,  the  hill,  the  lake  are  drenched  in 
moonlight,  the  scent  of  roses  is  on  the  air,  and  night 
has  laid  a  finger  of  silence  on  her  lip,  the  while  I 
sleep.  I  open  dreamy  eyes  just  wide  enough  to  see 


275 


a  little  boat  drifting  in  the  enchanted  moonlight, 
and  to  hear  voices  singing,  the  sound  borne  across 
the  water. 

I  fall  asleep  again,  and  when  I  stir  once  more,  it 
is  to  hear  voices  on  the  porch  below,  on  the  corner 
next  my  sleeping  porch,  a  murmurous  conversation 
that  is  yet  so  distinct  that  I  can  know  what  is  being 
said.  But  when  one  is  not  fully  awake,  one's  con 
science  is  not  in  first-rate  working  order,  is  the  last 
thing  to  be  aroused,  in  fact,  so  I  do  not  realize  the 
culpability  of  eavesdropping.  Besides,  is  it  not 
my  porch,  and  wasn't  I  here  first? 

I  hear  a  man  say,  "Lucia, "  and  I  know  it  isn't 
the  Doctor's  bland  accents,  though  it,  is  in  a  tone 
not  at  first  recognizable.  But  finally  I  know  that 
it  is  the  Professor  who  is  speaking.  But  can  it  be 
his  reserved  voice  that  is  full  of  such  hasteful  pas 
sion,  such  ardent  feeling? 

' '  Lucia  !     I  love  you  I     I  love  you  ! ' ' 

"But  I  don't  wish  you  to  love  me ! "  she  cries  out. 
"I  tell  you  I'm  afraid  of  you!" 

"Oh,  Lucia— why?" 

She  speaks  vehemently.  "Because  you  are  so 
reserved,  and  cold,  and  stern!  Your  gaze  seems 
always  weighing  me  and  finding  me  wanting,  and 
I'm  not  used  to  that.  Suppose  I  married  you,  and 


276  Jfrom  a 


you  looked  at  me  with  a  cold,  hard  gaze?  You 
say  you  love  me,  but  I  think  you  don't  know  what 
love  is!" 

There  is  a  moment's  silence.  Oh,  how  I  should 
like  to  go  down  and  shake  that  girl  ! 

At  last  he  speaks,  gently,  but  with  a  note  of  bit 
terness  I  have  never  heard  in  his  voice  before.  "I 
have  had  little  chance  in  my  life  to  know  what  love 
is." 

'  '  You  were  never  in  love  before  ?  '  '  She  throws 
the  words  at  him. 

"I'll  try  to  explain  to  you,  but  you'll  probably 
not  understand,  since  it  has  all  been  so  different 
from  what  you  have  known,"  he  says  patient 
ly.  "Your  life  has  been  compassed  about  with 
love,  so  that  you  do  not  know  what  any  other 
could  be  like.  No,  I  haven't  been  in  love,  as 
you  call  it.  Nor  have  I  known  other  types  of 
love." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  interrupts. 

"My  mother  died  when  I  was  a  baby,  "  he  says 
quietly.  "I  never  knew  her,  so  that  I  haven't 
even  any  memories  of  her.  My  father  was  a  very 
busy  man,  who  didn't  feel  he  could  spare  the  time 
to  make  friends  with  his  boy.  He  was  cold  and 
reserved  in  manner,  as  you  say  I  am,  so  doubtless 


277 


I  inherited  that  misfortune  from  him.  My  father 
left  me  in  charge  of  a  half-sister  of  his,  a  woman 
much  older  than  he  was.  I  lived  with  her  till  I 
went  off  to  boarding-school. ' ' 

"What  was  she  like?"  the  girl  questions. 

"She  was  a  good  woman,  but  not  one  who 
should  have  the  care  of  children.  She  never  loved 
me,  and  I  knew  it  even  when  I  was  a  baby. 
I  used  to  try  to  win  her  heart,  but  it  was  no 
use.  She  didn't  like  boys.  She  thought  boys 
were  born  evil,  and  must  be  controlled  with 
steel,  so  she  was  strict  and  stern  with  me.  I 
never  knew  anything  but  inhibition  in  my  life. 
I  used  to  hunger  for  love,  for  demonstration  of 
affection.  I  think  I  must  have  been  like  my 
mother  in  that. " 

He  hesitates  an  instant. 

"Many  a  time  I've  cried  myself  to  sleep  because 
no  one  ever  kissed  me,  or  said  little  foolish  nothings 
to  me,  as  mothers  do.  It  would  have  been  differ 
ent,  of  course,  if  my  mother  had  lived.  But  I  was 
taught  repression,  always  repression.  I  must 
never  make  any  noise.  If  I  cried,  I  was  punished. 
If  I  brought  myself  forward  in  any  way,  I  was 
taught  my  place ! ' ' 

"How  dreadful!"  Lucia  cries. 


278  Jfrom  a  g>outfjern 


"Yes,  it  was  pretty  hard  for  a  child.  You  see, 
inhibition  of  my  feelings  was  forced  into  a  habit 
with  me.  I  learned  to  repress  myself  utterly.  I 
went  about  with  lips  tight  closed,  without  making 
any  noise,  hiding  in  corners,  a  little  lonely  boy! 
Oh,  I  want  a  little  boy  of  my  own,  so  that  I  may 
treat  him  differently!" 

He  checks  himself. 

"By  the  time  I  was  sent  off  to  boarding-school, 
I  wasn't  fitted  for  association  with  other  boys  more 
normal.  They  didn't  understand  me,  and  thought 
me  priggish,  when  I  was  bursting  with  loneliness. 
So  my  school  days  weren't  much  happier  than 
those  at  home  had  been.  " 

"After  that?" 

"After  that  came  college,  which  was  much  the 
same.  I  did  good  work,  and  the  profs,  praised  me, 
but  I'd  have  given  all  the  honors  I  ever  earned  for  a 
slap  on  the  back  from  one  of  the  fellows.  They 
respected  me,  but  I  didn't  want  respect.  I  wanted 
comradeship. 

'  '  So  that's  why  I  am  as  I  am.  You  are  the  only 
person  I  have  ever  really  loved,  and  my  heart 
cries  out  for  love  of  you,  but  I  don't  know  how  to 
express  it  !  And  you  think  me  cold  1  I  knew  when 
I  was  a  child  that  Aunt  Sarah  was  being  cruel  to 


Sleeping  (0ut  279 


me,  but  I  couldn't  guess  the  greatness  of  the  wrong 
she  was  doing  me.  She  has  made  it  impossible  for 
you  to  love  me!  Lucia!" 

I  hear  a  little  sob,  and  a  soft  rustle  and  stir  as  of 
skirts.  I  lean  on  my  elbow  and  look  down  on  the 
porch  at  right  angles  to  my  porch,  and  see  Lucia, 
the  haughty,  the  proud  Lucia,  draw  his  head  down 
to  hers  and,  with  her  arms  about  his  neck,  give  him 
a  quick  kiss. 

His  arms  are  about  her.  ' '  You  love  me,  Lucia  ? ' ' 
he  cries  incredulously. 

"I  love  the  little  boy  you  used  to  be!"  she  says 
brokenly.  ' '  That  kiss  was  for  him ! ' ' 

' '  And  none  for  the  man  ? "  he  pleads .  ' '  Do  you 
love  me,  Lucia?" 

"Yes,  yes!"  she  cries.  "I  guess  I  always  have, 
but  I  was  afraid  of  you. " 

"And  now?" 

"Now  I'll  never  be  afraid  of  you  any  more! 
Oh,  how  I  hate  myself!" 

"/ — don't  hate  you,  Lucia!"  he  murmurs  half 
articulately. 

I  put  my  face  against  the  screen  and  speak  quite 
distinctly.  "Would  you  dear  young  creatures 
kindly  move  your  protestations  to  the  other  end  of 
the  porch?" 


280  Jfrom  a  £>outfjern  $orcf) 

"Oh, "  cries  Lucia,  in  agitation.  "Did  we  dis 
turb  you  ?  Were  you  asleep  ? ' ' 

' '  Yes,  you  disturb  me ! "  I  answer  shortly.  "I've 
listened  as  long  as  my  conscience  will  let  me,  and 
if  you  stay  here  any  longer,  I'll  have  to  put  a  pillow 
over  my  ears.  And  a  pillow  is  not  pleasing  on  a 
summer  night.  Ears  wake  up  more  easily  than 
any  other  senses,  I  have  learned." 

"We  go,  sweet  Porcher, "  laughed  the  Professor. 
It  is  really  the  first  time  I  remember  hearing  him 
laugh  out  loud. 

"We  have  something  to  tell  you  in  the  morning, 
Porcher,"  says  Lucia. 

"No,  you  haven't!"  I  contradict  her  crossly. 
"I  knew  it  long  before  either  of  you  did.  Haven't 
I  been  telling  you  of  it  all  summer? " 

"Yes,  but  to-night " 

"I  know  about  to-night,  too.  I  was  asleep,  but 
my  ears  were  awake." 

"We  don't  mind  what  you  heard,  Porcher," 
says  he.  "We'd  have  told  you  all  about  it  in  the 
morning  anyhow.  '* 

"Well,  go  on  away  now,  and  let  me  get  some 
sleep.  I  must  begin  planning  for  a  wedding,  to 
morrow.  I  insist  that  it  shall  be  on  the  front 
porch." 


XI 


PORCH   RAILLERY 

I  WAS  sitting  on  the  porch  last  night,  steeped  in 
dreams.  It  was  twelve  o'clock,  and  the  others  of 
the  household  were  all  asleep,  but  the  white  magic 
of  the  moon  had  so  bewitched  me  that  I  could  not 
go  inside.  I  sat  on  the  steps,  nursing  my  knees 
and  watching  the  lilies  nod  in  the  moonlight,  or 
studying  the  tracery  of  the  pine  trees  against  the 
sky,  or  wondering  at  the  grace  of  the  Lombardy 
poplars  that  rose  like  tall  altar  candles  lifted  for 
the  stars  to  light.  The  gazing-globe  was  a  great 
silver  moon  dropped  down  upon  a  pedestal,  reflect 
ing  the  clouds  it  had  fallen  through.  The  thou 
sand  night  scents  were  gathered  into  one  dewy 
perfume  unimaginably  sweet.  The  little  brook 
talked  softly  to  itself  astir  in  its  pebbly  bed,  and 
the  birds  chirped  sleepily  now  and  then  as  if  they 
hated  to  spend  such  wonderful  hours  in  slumber. 
I  watched  the  ghostly  clouds  that  went  a-traveling 
across  the  sky,  making  no  sound,  leaving  no  foot- 

281 


282  jfrom  a  iboutfjern 


print,  with  not  even  the  Milky  Way  to  find  their 
path  back  home  by. 

Suddenly  I  heard  a  rustle  in  the  shrubbery 
toward  the  little  path  that  comes  up  the  hill  from 
the  lake,  accompanied  by  a  curious,  clinking  sound. 
Presently  the  bushes  were  thrust  aside  and  a  figure 
stepped  into  the  light  as  he  came  toward  me.  He 
had  on  a  broad  hat  such  as  men  wear  on  the 
plains,  a  flannel  shirt  open  at  the  throat,  corduroy 
trousers,  and  a  belt  with  a  brace  of  pistols  stuck 
into  it. 

He  took  off  his  hat  with  a  grandiose  sweep  as  he 
saw  me.  '  '  Good-evening  !  '  ' 

"Good-evening,"  I  saluted  him,  rising. 

'  '  I  heard  you  was  from  Texas  and  liked  my  sort 
of  folks,  so  I  thought  I'd  look  you  up,"  he  said 
jauntily. 

"Yes,  Mr.  --  ?" 

"Dave  Billings,  "  he  proffered. 

"I'm  always  glad  to  see  any  one  from  Texas, 
Mr.  Billings.  Come  in  and  have  a  seat.  You're 
a  cowboy,  I  believe?" 

"Yes'm,  you  might  say  so,"  he  conceded,  as  he 
eased  himself  into  a  big  chair  and  dropped  his 
huge  hat  on  the  floor.  "Though  I'm  not  on  the 
job  right  now.  '  ' 


EatUerp  283 


"Why  didn't  you  come  earlier?"  I  hazarded. 
"It's  rather  late  for  a  call,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"No'm,  not  for  my  kind.  We  don't  generally 
go  abroad  till  about  midnight,  that  is,  the  old- 
fashioned  ones  don't.  Some  of  the  new-style  ones 
go  out  any  time  o'  day  they  like.  It's  just  as  they 
chooses,  you  see." 

1  '  I  don't  remember  having  noticed  that  tendency 
among  Texans,  '  '  I  murmured.  '  '  Sounds  more  like 
New  York  to  me." 

"I'm  not  talking  about  Texas  folks  now,"  he 
said,  patient  with  my  ignorance.  "I'm  speakin' 
o'  ghosts." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you're  a  ghost!" 

"Surest  thing  you  know'."  he  grinned.  "I 
heard  that  you  was  fond  of  ghosts,  an'  since  there 
ain't  many  folks  that  are,  I  thought  I'd  come 
around.  To  tell  the  truth,  I'm  lonesome.  " 

"I  certainly  am  glad  to  see  you!"  I  ejaculated 
cordially.  "I've  never  seen  a  ghost  before.  I've 
thought  a  lot  about  them,  but  I've  never  met  one. 
How  long  have  you  been  one,  may  I  ask?" 

He  leaned  back  comfortably  in  the  big  chair, 
stretching  out  his  legs.  "'Bout  two  months. 
Had  a  little  fracas  with  Old  Man  Anson  'bout 
some  steers,  an'  the  durned  ol'  cuss  shot  before  I 


284  Jfrom  a  &>outfjern 


could  draw  my  gun.  He  sure  was  quick  on  the 
trigger." 

"That  was  too  bad!"  I  mourned,  then  suddenly 
giggled.  "I've  often  grieved  with  other  people 
about  other  people's  deaths,  but  I  never  before 
sympathized  with  a  ghost  about  his  own  taking  off  !" 

1  *  Tis  funny  !  "    He  shook  appreciatively. 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  what  is  that  curious 
noise  I  keep  hearing  ?  "  I  asked.  '  '  Is  it  your  skele 
ton  rattling?" 

"No'm,  it's  my  spurs,"  he  responded  cour 
teously,  protruding  two  prodigious  feet  into  the 
moonlight,  and  exhibiting  spurs  to  his  boots.  As 
he  gave  a  sudden  kick,  there  was  a  musical  jingle. 

'  '  Got  little  bells  on  'em,  "  he  explained.  '  '  When 
I  dance  they  play  regular  tunes.  Foot-bell  ringers 
you  might  call  them.  '  ' 

"How  lovely!  "  I  cried.  "But  tell  me  how  you 
come  to  be  so  far  from  home  —  if  you  still  call  Texas 
home,"  I  amended  quickly. 

"Sure  thing!"  he  said  emphatically.  "Can't 
show  me  no  better  heaven!  But  I  just  thought 
I'd  shake  my  hoof  a  bit  and  see  the  world,  since  I 
never  had  no  chance  while  I  was  working  on  the 
ranch." 

"And  you  say  you've  been  lonesome?" 


EaiUerp  285 


"Bet  your  life!  Folks  sure  do  turn  the  cold 
shoulder  to  ghosts.  Most  folks  don't  even  so  much 
as  see  us,  and  those  that  do  are  skeered  enough  to 
jump  outer  their  skins.  This  is  the  first  real 
mouthful  of  talk  I've  had  with  a  live  one  since  I 
was  killed." 

1  'You're  the  livest  dead  person  I  ever  heard  of!" 
I  ejaculated. 

"No'm,  plenty  like  me.  There's  a  herd  of  'em 
down  by  the  lake  right  now,  hungering  for  a  little 
human  companionship." 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  them  up?  I'd  love  to 
meet  them." 

"I'll  go  get  'em  now,"  he  said,  jointing  his  long 
limbs  as  he  rose  from  the  chair.  "They're  really 
sorter  expecting  to  be  sent  for.  They're  waiting 
down  there  till  I  come  back. ' ' 

"By  all  means  bring  them." 

He  jingled  off  down  the  hill,  singing  a  song  about 
Texas: 

'  'Where  the  prairie  dog  kneels  on  the  backs  of  his  heels 
And  fervently  prays  for  a  rain!" 

I  hastily  shook  up  sofa  pillows,  pushed  forward 
easy-chairs,  and  made  what  preparations  I  could  for 
my  guests. 


286  Jfrom  a  iboutfjern 


I  heard  them  coming  up  the  hill.  They  ap 
peared  one  at  a  time  on  the  steps  leading  to  a 
slightly  elevated  portion  of  the  lawn,  through  the 
shrubbery  that  half  conceals  the  entrance.  Each 
one  came  from  the  shadow  into  the  bright  patch  of 
moonlight  that  played  about  him  like  a  spectral  spot 
light  on  a  ghostly  stage.  David  Belasco  himself 
couldn't  have  arranged  it  better,  and  I  had  a  mo 
mentary  pang  of  regret  that  he  wasn't  there  to  see. 

There  were  two  coal-black  ghosts  in  the  lot,  one 
enormous  giant  of  a  negro  in  khaki,  that  made  an 
impressive  figure  in  the  moonlight,  with  his  black, 
black  face,  his  eyes  like  hard-boiled  eggs,  and  his 
ashy  lips.  The  other  was  a  mere  boy,  about  seven 
teen  years  old,  in  ragged  clothes,  and  with  a  couple 
of  adventurous  toes  starting  out  into  the  world  to 
seek  misfortune. 

I  greeted  the  troupe  cordially  on  the  steps,  though 
a  hasty  reflection  made  me  decide  against  offering 
to  shake  hands  with  them.  Ghosts  are  delightful, 
of  course,  but  somehow  you  don't  feel  like  touching 
them,  any  more  than  you  do  the  cold  underpart 
of  a  frog's  body,  or  a  bat's  uncanny  wing.  I  pushed 
chairs  forward  for  them,  and  they  were  all  seated 
presently,  the  two  black  shadows  casting  them 
selves  on  the  steps. 


287 


Dave  Billings  hadn't  introduced  them  to  me  as 
individuals,  and  they  had  not  offered  their  names, 
so  I  smothered  my  curiosity  for  the  moment  and 
determined  to  find  out  by  degrees  who  and  what 
and  why  they  were. 

"Mind  if  we  smoke?"  inquired  the  cowboy. 

* '  Not  at  all, ' '  I  assured  him.  ' '  But  is  it  custom 
ary  ?  I  didn't  know  you  could. " 

"Oh,  yes,  plenty  of  sulphur  and  fire  to  light 
smokes  on  our  side,  you  know.  And  we've  got  the 
ghosts  of  the  makin's  with  us. " 

Each  man  produced  his  own  favorite  form  of 
smoke,  some  cigarettes,  some  men  black  cigars, 
the  negroes  cheroots,  while  one  ghost  in  work- 
stained  overalls  dug  from  his  pocket  a  pipe  with  an 
extremely  unpleasant  odor.  As  each  man  put  his 
smoke  to  his  lips,  a  queer  little  will-o'-the-wisp 
floated  up  as  lighter.  It  was  an  interesting  phe 
nomenon.  Presently,  as  a  strong  and  lifelike  odor 
of  tobacco  pervaded  the  porch,  wraiths  of  smoke 
drifted  about  us  all. 

Dave  Billings  said  apologetically,  "You  must 
excuse  this  garb  of  ours,  sister,  for  we  ain't 
dressed  for  a  party.  But  you  know  we  can't  carry 
trunks  with  us,  as  there  ain't  no  baggage  coach  in 
the  hereafter  train. " 


288  Jfrom  a  ^outfjern 


"Yes,  I  understand  that  you  have  to  keep  wear 
ing  what  you  have  on  when  you  are  ghosted,"  I 
said.  '  *  Ghosts  always  wear  what  they're  last  seen 
in  in  the  flesh,  though  I've  always  thought  that 
must  be  hard  for  some.  " 

"Yes,  ma'am!"  —  said  Dave,  emphatically.  "I 
allus  said  I  wanted  to  die  with  my  boots  on,  so  I 
wouldn't  be  ketched  barefooted  in  the  other  world." 

The  man  in  overalls  removed  his  unpleasant  pipe 
and  contributed  to  the  discussion. 

"It's  kinder  hard  to  be  carried  off  before  you  get 
your  Saturday  night  bath  an'  shave,"  he  com 
plained.  "Look  at  me  now,  —  I  got  to  wear  those 
duds  forever  and  ever.  " 

"Your  garments  certainly  are  germy,  too,  my 
good  man  !  '  '  put  in  a  tart  voice. 

I  looked  around  to  see  who  had  spoken,  and  found 
it  was  a  woman  dressed  in  a  flannelette  night 
gown,  a  tall,  thin  woman  with  hair  in  curl  papers, 
and  with  curious  patches  of  court  plaster  all  over 
her  face. 

"That's  all  right,  lady,"  chuckled  the  pipe. 
"I  got  on  my  day  clothes,  anyhow.  'Tain't  my 
nightshirt." 

"How  vulgar!"  she  froze.  "As  if  it  were  my 
fault  that  I've  got  to  go  like  this!" 


289 


"Tell  me  about  it, "  I  interposed  pacifically. 

"I  was  scared  to  death  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,"  she  explained  bitterly.  "A  burglar  broke 
into  my  room  with  a  pistol  and  I  died  of  heart 
failure.  I  was  always  a  sensitive,  high-strung  soul ! 
Of  course,  I  didn't  know  I'd  have  to  go  through 
eternity  in  my  night  clothes,  else  I'd  have  borne  up 
long  enough  to  get  into  my  kimona,  at  least.  But 
here,  I  am,  a  modest  woman.  It's  unfair  ' 

"Were  you  in  a  hospital?"  I  asked  sympatheti 
cally.  "Had  you  been  hurt  in  some  accident,  that 
you  had  those  court-plasters  on  your  face  ? " 

"These  are  not  wounds ! "  she  said  in  refrigerated 
tones.  ' '  These  are  wrinkle  eradicators ! ' ' 

A  round-faced,  bald-headed  ghost  here  pushed 
his  chair  forward  a  bit  into  the  discussion.  "I've 
thought  a  good  deal  about  the  rule  making  us  wear 
our  death-day  clothes  forever, "  he  said.  "Strikes 
me  it's  pretty  hard  on  these  chaps  you  sometimes 
read  about,  that  die  of  heart  failure  in  the  bathtub." 

"How  unspeakably  vulgar!"  cried  the  wrinkle- 
eradicated  one,  drawing  her  flannelette  skirts  about 
her  as  if  to  depart. 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  they'd  be  allowed  a  sheet!"  I 
suggested.  "We  read  of  sheeted  ghosts,  you  see, 
and  that  must  be  the  explanation.  But  what  I'd 


290  jftom  a  ^ontfjern 


like  to  know  is  how  those  ghost  clothes  last  so 
long.  Why  don't  they  ever  wear  out,  or  do  they? 
Who  darns  the  ghosts'  socks?" 

'  '  Ghostly  tissue  has  a  method  of  renewing  itself, 
both  in  clothes  and  in  persons,"  said  an  aristocratic 
middle-aged  shade  lounging  in  the  steamer  chair, 
with  a  long,  expensive-looking  cigar  in  his  mouth. 
1  '  Many  latter-day  ghosts  are  very  energetic  in  their 
habits,  hence  it  is  supposed  that  friction  even  of  an 
ethereal  kind  would  in  the  end  wear  out  garments, 
but  such  is  not  the  case.  " 

"But  think  of  the  anguish  of  a  fashionable 
woman  compelled  to  wear  an  out-of  -style  dress!" 
I  cried.  "And  fancy  how  Queen  Elizabeth,  for  in 
stance,  must  suffer,  at  leaving  her  thousand  gowns 
behind  and  being  restricted  to  one,  that  she'd 
wiped  up  the  floor  with,  at  that  !  " 

"Yes,  "he  conceded. 

"But  why  hasn't  some  enterprising  Yankee  or 
Hebraic  spook  contrived  to  set  up  a  clothing  es 
tablishment  on  the  other  side?  Mightn't  asbestos 
be  worn?  Or  at  least,  you  might  have  an  ex 
change  of  old  clothes,  so  you  could  swap  about 
occasionally." 

"That  might  be  worked  out,"  he  agreed  thought 
fully.  "But  there  are  various  difficulties." 


291 


"But,  Mistis, "  the  dark  giant  on  the  steps  ad 
dressed  the  flannelette  nightgown.  "You  ain't 
as  bad  off  as  I  am,  no  ways.  The  wust  thing  in 
the  world  is  to  die  hungry,  to  die  in  debt  to  yo' 
stummick!  That's  what  done  happened  to  me!" 

He  sat  on  the  steps,  hunched  forward  in  his 
khaki  uniform,  his  black  face  humbly  mournful. 

' '  Why,  you  poor  thing ! "  I  cried  in  pity.  ' '  Were 
you  a  prisoner  of  war?" 

"No,  Mistis,  I  was  jes'  in  de  army.  Dey  done 
sont  us  to  de  front-line  trenches,  an'  I  stayed  dere 
a  powerful  long  time.  We  didn't  hab  nothing  to 
eat  in  de  trenches  but  braid  an'  coffee,  'case  dey 
couldn't  get  no  supplies  to  us,  on  'count  ob  de 
heaby  firing.  So  I  was  near  'bout  starbed,  an' 
den  I  went  an'  got  shell-shuck. " 

"Too  bad!" 

"  Yes'm,  hit  sho'  wus.  Dey  done  tuck  me  to  de 
horspital  when  dey  git  us  out,  an'  one  ob  dem 
young  internals,  he  says  I  was  anemic,  an'  he  put 
me  on  a  low  diet.  It  sho'  was  low,  too!  He  say 
he  got  to  bun"  me  up  befo'  I  kin  eat,  an*  I  say  how 
kin  I  bun"  up  less'n  I  eat?" 

"And  then?" 

"  Atter  awhile  dey  done  put  me  on  a  ship  to  bring 
me  home.  De  doctor  he  say  I  kin  eat  all  I  wants 


292  Jfrom  a  g>outf)ern 


to  on  de  ship,  an'  so  es  soon  es  I  got  on  bo'd,  I  be 
gin  to  plan  my  fust  dinner.  Dey  say  I  kin  hab 
whatever  I  wishes,  an'  so  I  done  order  sweet  'taters 
an'  spareribs,  an'  pumpkin  pie,  an  batter  bread 
an',  an'  you  knows,  Mistis!" 

"Yes,  I  know.     Goon." 

He  faltered  a  moment. 

"I  do  hope  you  enjoyed  them,  "  I  said. 

"Naw,  Mistis,  "  he  quavered.  "When  dat  boat 
begin  to  trabble,  an*  dey  brung  my  dinner  to  me,  I 
got  seasick.  I  ain'  wan'  my  dinner.  I  ain'  want 
what  I  is  eat  already  !  Mistis,  I  wus  seasick  clear 
cross  de  ocean  !  Dat  shell-shuck  shuck  me  up  so, 
dat  I  couldn't  assimulate  my  food  at  all.  And  I 
done  pegged  out  jes'  as  de  gangplank  wus  let  down 
in  New  Yawk!" 

1  '  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  !  "  I  mourned.  '  '  Is  there  any 
thing  I  could  do  for  you  ? 

His  black  face  lightened.  "I  tell  you  whut  you 
kin  do,  Mistis.  I  kain'  eat  yo'  sort  ob  food,  but 
dere's  a  nigger  grabeyard  yan  in  de  valley.  If 
'long  'bout  twelve  o'clock,  you  could  put  a  water- 
millyon  an'  a  Smithfiel'  hamb  bone  an',  an',  you 
knows  whut,  Mistis,  on  one  ob  de  grabes  dere,  I 
think  I  could  crope  in  an'  sorter  sperit  hit  away.  " 

"I'll  do  it  !  "  I  agreed  heartily. 


293 


"Thank  you  kindly,  Mistis.  I  knowed  you'd 
help  oF  Ahash  out." 

* '  What  is  your  name  ? "  I  asked. 

"Ahashuerus,  Mistis.  But  dey  ginerally  calls 
me  Ahash  for  short,  or  jes'  plain  Hash. " 

1 '  Where  wus  you  f um  ? ' '  inquired  the  colored  boy 
beside  him  on  the  steps. 

"I  wus  fum  Savannah.     Where  wus  you  fum?" 

"  I  wus  fum  Waco,  Texas, "  he  answered. 

"Oh,  were  you?"  I  cried  delightedly.  "That's 
my  old  home.  Tell  me  about  it  all !" 

"Wellum,  I  done  lib  down  on  Waco  Creek,  an' 
I  wus  a  shine  boy  fo'  de  young  men  in  Baylor 
University. ' ' 

"You  know  some  of  the  shine  reels,  then?" 
I  asked.  "I  used  to  hear  the  college  men  talk 
about  them. " 

"Yes,  Mistis." 

"Sing  some  of  them  for  us, "  I  urged. 

He  hesitated.  "Wellum,  I  ain'  know  eczackly 
whether  hit's  proper  to  sing  reels  atter  you  is  dead. 
Dey  putty  nigh  tu'ned  me  outen  de  church  'case 
I  sung  dem  whilst  I  was  libing.  Lemme  sing  you 
some  hymn  chunes,  Mistis!" 

"Well,  you  can  start  off  with  a  hymn,"  I  com 
promised. 


294  Jrom  a  g>outfjern  $drcfj 

He  drew  from  some  shadowy  somewhere  the 
wraith  of  an  old  banjo,  and  began  picking  the 
strings  reminiscently.  As  a  weird  melody  stole 
forth,  he  began  his  chanting  song : 

"Some  preachers,  dey  is  preachin' 

Jes'  for  a^preacher's  name, 
But  de  doctrine  dey  is  preachin' 
Is  scand'lous  an'  a  shame. 

CHORUS  : 

Do  you  call  dat  religion?    Oh,  no! 
Do  you  call  dat  religion?     Oh,  no! 
Do  you  call  dat  religion?     Oh,  no! 
Hit's  scan'lous  an'  a  shame. 

An'  den  we  hab  some  deacons 

Who  sit  in  de  rulin'  chair. 
Dey  duty  is  to  see  atter  us, 

But  dey  say  dat  dey  don'  care. 


CHORUS  : 


An'  den  we  hab  some  brothers 
Dat's  giben  to  hab  two  wives, 

An'  ef  you  spring  dat  question, 
You'll  see  dey  dander  rise. 


CHORUS  : 


An'  den  we  hab  some  sisters 
Who  claim  dey  is  very  meek, 


295 


But  dey  pass  by  each  other's  do' 
An'  neber  stop  to  speak. 


CHORUS  : 


An'  den  we  hab  some  members 
Who  are  on  de  road  to  hell, 

If  dey're  not  wropped  up  in  dis  worl', 
Dey '11  say  dey're  not  doin'  well. 


CHORUS  : 


Dey'll  play  dominoes  an'  checkers, 
Play  cards  an'  baseball  too, 

An'  ef  you  try  to  correc'  dem, 
Dey'll  say  dey's  es  good  es  you. 


CHORUS  : 


If  dey  hear  dat  you  is  sick, 
You'll  see  dem  slip  an'  dodge; 

Dey  won't  come  nigh  to  see  you, 
Ef  you  don'  belong  to  dey  lodge. 


CHORUS  : 


When  you  are  well  an'  wealthy, 
So  many  are  yo'  frien's; 

But  when  you  get  onhealthy, 
Dey  seldom  will  come  in. 


CHORUS  : 


De  church  folks  will  borrow  money 
An'  promise  sure  to  pay, 


296  Jfrom  a  iboutfjern 


But  when  dey  sees  you  comin', 
Dey  goes  some  odder  way. 


CHORUS  : 

Now  you  say  you  been  converted, 
Why  don't  you  stop  tellin'  lies, 

Stop  drinkin'  beer  an*  whisky, 
An'  be  more  civilized?" 

CHORUS  : 

"Huh!  I  don't  call  dat  a  real  hymn  chune," 
protested  Ahash. 

"See  if  you  kin  do  better,  den!"  sniffed  Jake,  of 
Waco  Creek. 

"Yes,  you  give  us  a  song,  Ahash,  "  I  suggested. 

Ahash  produced  a  pair  of  bones  from  his  pocket, 
and  gave  premonitory  clinkings,  after  which  he 
sang: 

"When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin', 
When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin', 

Den  I'll  wear  de  golden  slippers, 

An'  I'll  flop  de  silver  flippers, 
When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin'  ! 

CHORUS  : 

When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber,  when  I  swim  de  gold 
en  ribber, 


ftaillcrp  297 


When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin', 
Den  I  hear  my  master  callin', 
An'  I'se  gwine  to  come  asquallin', 

When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin' ! 

CHORUS 

When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin', 
When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin', 

Den  I'll  dress  in  silk  an'  satin, 

An'  I'll  talk  in  Greek  an'  Latin, 
When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin' ! 

CHORUS  : 

When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin', 
When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin', 

Ol'  Satan'll  build  a  fiah, 

An'  he'all  say  to  me,  '  Come  nighah, ' 
When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin' ! 

CHORUS  : 

When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin', 
When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin', 

Ef  ol'  Satan  pesters  me, 

Dere'll  be  a  jamboree, 
When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin' ! 

CHORUS  : 

When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin', 
When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin', 

Dere  will  be  no  corn  nor  cotton, 

All  my  trouble' 11  be  forgotten, 

When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin'! 
CHORUS  : 


298  Jfrom  a  ^>outf)ern 


When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin', 
When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin', 

Dere'll  be  joy  an'  lots  to  eat, 

Dere'll  be  bread  an'  lots  ob  meat, 
When  I  swim  de  golden  ribber  in  de  mawnin'!  " 

CHORUS: 

"Dat  ain'  no  hymn  proper.  I  calls  dat  a  hymn- 
reel,"  grumbled  Jake. 

"What  is  that?"  I  asked. 

"A  hymn  is  a  church  chune.  A  reel  is  a  comic 
chune.  A  hymn-reel  is  a  comic  church  chune. 
Dey's  bofe  diff  'rent  from  ballets.  " 

"What  are  ballets?"  I  asked  interestedly. 

"A  ballet  is  a  story  chune  dat  ain't  'ligious.  A 
hymn-ballet  is  a  story  chune  'bouten  Bible  folks.  " 

'  '  Do  you  know  any  hymn  ballets  ?  '  ' 

"Yas'm." 

"  Can't  you  sing  one  for  us?"     I  requested. 

"I  knows  one  'bout  Samson  an'  Delijah,"  ad 
mitted  Jake. 

"Let  us  hear  it,  "  I  said  cordially. 

"Wellum."  He  hunched  himself  against  the 
post,  and  twangled  the  strings  of  his  ghostly  gui 
tar  as  he  began  to  sing. 

Delijah  was  a  woman  fine  an'  fair, 
Pleasant-looking,  wid  coal-black  hair. 


299 


Why  he  went  to  Timothy,  I  cannot  tell, 

But  the  daughter  of  Timothy  pleased  him  well. 

Samson  tol'  his  father  to  go  an'  see 

If  he  could  get  that  beautiful  woman  for  me. 

Ef  I  had  my  way,  Oh,  Lordy,  Lawd! 
Ef  I  had  my  way, 
I  would  tear  de  buildin'  down! 
Samson's  mother  replied  to  him, 
'  Why  do  you  want  to  marry  a  Pallestine? 
Why  don't  you  marry  a  woman  of  your  own  kith  an' 
kin?' 

Let  me  tell  you  what  Samson  done. 

He  broke  at  de  lion,  an'  de  lion  run. 

It  was  written  dat  the  lion  killed  de  man  wid  his  jaw. 

Wasn't  Samson  de  first  man  de  lion  attackted? 

Samson  caught  de  lion  an'  got  on  his  back. 

Den  Samson  hab  his  han*  in  de  lion's  jaw. 

Samson  killed  de  lion ;  long  atter  de  lion  was  dead, 

Bees  made  honey  in  de  lion's  head. 

Samson  put  fo'th  a  riddle,  an'  de  riddle  was  guessed 

in  seben  days 

He  would  put  forth  a  feast. 
In  seben  days  Samson's  riddle  was  not  in  view. 

Pallestines  tol'  Samson's  wife, 
Ask  him  if  he  really  pleased  to  tell  hit  to  thee. 
On  the  sebenth  day  befo'  de  sun  went  down, 
Pallestines  ask  Samson  what  was  stronger  dan  lion, 
What  was  sweeter  dan  honey. 


300  Jftom  a  gxmtfjern 


Samson  went  to  town  to  stay  too  late. 

Dey  want  to  kill  Samson  as  dey  lay  in  wait. 

But  Samson  was  very  strong. 

He  pulled  up  de  gatepos'  an'  carried  hit  along. 

Samson  burned  down  de  fiel'  ob  cawn. 

When  dey  look  fo'  Samson,  he  was  gone! 

Three  thousand  men  begun  to  plot. 

Fo'  very  long,  ol'  Samson  was  caught. 

Dey  boun'  him  down  while  walkin'  along, 

An'  he  tuck  an  ol'  jawbone. 

Samson  moved  his  arm,  an'  de    rope    popped   like 

thread. 
When  Samson  got  through  slayin',  three  thousand 

was  dead. 

Read  about  Samson  fum  his  birth, 

De  strongest  man  dat  libed  on  earth. 

Read  way  back  in  ancient  times 

When  he  killed  three  thousand  Pallestines. 

Samson's  wife  sot  down  on  his  knee. 

'  Say  where  do  your  strength  lie,  please  tell  hit  to  me.' 

She  talked  so  fair,  Samson  say,  '  Jes'  cut  off  my  hair, 

Shave  my  head  as  clean  as  yo'  han', 

Den  my  strength  will  be  as  a  natural  man.  '  " 

He  paused  apologetically,  "Deys  mo'  to  hit  but 
you  mought  get  tired  of  hit  all." 

"Very  interesting,"  I  commented.  "Now  can 
you  give  us  a  regular  ballet?" 


301 


"I'll  gib  you  one  'bouten  Frankie.  Hit's  a 
favorite  one  in  Texas. "  And  he  relayed  the  woes 
of  dusky  Frankie: 

"Frankie  was  a  good  girl,  as  everybody  knows. 
Frankie  sabed  her  money  to  buy  her  man  some  clo'se. 
Oh,  he's  her  man,  but  he  done  her  wrong! 

Frankie  went  to  de  bar  to  get  a  bottle  ob  beer. 
Said,  'Mr.  Bartender,  hab  my  man  Albert  been  here? 
Oh,  he's  my  man,  but  he  done  me  wrong! ' 

Said  Mr.  Bartender,  'Miss  Frankie,  I  ain'  gwine  tell 

you  no  lies. 

I  seen  yore  man  Albert  wid  dat  Sarah  Slies. 
Oh,  he's  yore  man,  but  de  done  you  wrong!' 

Frankie  went  hx)me  to  get  a  gun, 
An'  she  shot  her  man  Albert  wid  his  own  forty-one. 
Oh,  he  was  her  man,  but  he  done  her  wrong ! 

'  Turn  me  ober,  Frankie,  turn  me  ober  slow. 
Turn  me  ober,  Frankie,  fo'  dat  bullet  hurts  me  so. 
Oh,  I'm  yore  man,  but  I  done  you  wrong. ' 

An'  den  dey  put  po'  Albert 
In  a  bran'  new  livery  hack, 
An'  dey  took  him  to  de  grabeyard, 
But  dey  never  brought  him  back. 

Oh,  he  was  her  man,  but  he  done  her  wrong!" 


302  Jfrom  a  g>out&ern 


Here  we  were  interrupted  by  a  thin  whisper  of 
a  voice.  "I  think  entirely  too  much  attention  is 
being  paid  to  those  colored  persons!" 

As  I  looked  toward  the  spot  from  which  the 
sound  came,  I  saw  a  ghost  as  thin  as  a  piece  of 
paper.  "Who  are  you,  my  friend?"  I  asked. 
"And  what  happened  to  you  —  a  landslide?" 

"No,  "  he  said  in  a  knife-like  voice.  "I  had  to 
ride  in  the  New  York  subway  at  the  rush  hours. 
I  assumed  this  shape  by  degrees,  till  one  day  my 
breath  left  me  altogether,  because  it  had  no  room 
at  all." 

'  '  I  know  how  it  feels  !  I've  been  there  myself  !  " 
I  murmured  sympathetically. 

A  husky  voice  spoke  up  from  the  couch,  and 
I  looked  round  to  see  a  man  in  fur  overcoat,  with  his 
collar  turned  up.  "I  froze  to  death  during  war 
times!"  he  hoarsed."  And  I  don't  know  whether 
to  haunt  Garfield  or  my  landlord.  Whenever  I  go 
at  one,  he  refers  me  to  the  other,  and  each  turns 
a  cold  shoulder  to  me!" 

"Aren't  there  —  warm  regions  —  you  could  thaw 
out  in?"  I  questioned  tentatively. 

"They  won't  let  me  into  Hell,  for  fear  I'd  lower 
the  temperature  too  much,  '  '  he  said. 

As  he  spoke  the  words  dropped  in  icicles  from 


Jlorcf)  &afUerp  303 


his  lips  and  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  rattle.  Tears 
froze  on  his  cheeks. 

"What  you  need  is  a  ghost  union,"  broke  in  a 
burly  voice  with  a  soap  box  accent.  "You  never 
can  get  your  rights  by  yourself.  Organize,  organ 
ize — that's  the  thing!  Then  well  have  those 
mortals  on  the  run. " 

"Is  there  a  ghost  union?"  I  asked  breathlessly. 

"No,  but  there  ought  to  be.  I'm  a  walking 
delegate  now  to  work  it  up.  The  ghosts  are 
mobilizing  and  we'll  straighten  out  things.  We'll 
get  our  hours  standardized,  demand  extra  pay 
for  day  work,  have  proper  conditions  for  haunt 
ing  arranged,  and  get  things  going  our  way. 
If  we  ever  get  industrially  democratized,  the  live 
ones  won't  have  the  chance  of  a  ghost  to  resist 


us." 


"You  have  such  common  sentiments,  my  good 
man,"  put  in  an  aristocratic  ghost  in  the  wicker 
chair.  "You  speak  as  if  all  ghosts  belonged  to 
the  laboring  classes." 

"And  don't  you  haunt  any  yourself?"  sneered 
the  soap  box. 

"Certainly  not.     I  have  my  ghost  to  do  that." 

"Your  ghost?"  I  cried  incredulously.  "Does  a 
ghost  have  a  ghost?" 


304  Jfrom  a  gxmtfjern 


"Assuredly,"  he  responded.  "Going  without 
your  ghost  would  be  like  getting  along  without 
your  valet  —  possible,  of  course,  for  simple-minded 
souls,  but  extremely  undesirable.  I  have  my  ghost 
to  do  my  haunting  for  me.  " 

"But  where  does  he  come  from?"  I  queried, 
with  more  curiosity  than  politeness. 

"The  ghosts  of  strong  personalities  are  so  much 
alive  that  they  have  their  own  ghosts,  '  '  he  ex 
plained.  "A  ghost  once  removed  is  a  more  pallid 
specter,  but  quite  active.  Here,  James,  "  he  called 
into  the  shadow,  and  an  unsubstantial  wraith 
came  forward. 

"I've  got  no  use  for  stuck-up  spooks  that  keep 
body  ghosts,  "  growled  the  unpleasant  pipe. 

I  hastily  interposed,  to  prevent  friction,  and 
turned  to  Jake.  "Can't  you  give  us  another  reel 
or  ballet?" 

He  picked  tentatively  at  his  banjo,  leaned  his 
head  back  against  the  white  column,  and  sang  of 
the  Boston  Burglar,  his  rich  notes  throbbing 
through  the  air. 

"There  goes  a  Boston  burglar, 
All  wrapped  in  iron  an'  bound. 

For  great,  guilty  crimes  he's  done, 
He's  bound  for  Huntsville  town." 


iiatllerp  305 


("Huntsville  is  de  place  where  a  pentitentiary 
is,  in  Texas, "  Jake  informed  the  uninitiate.) 

"Boys  who  have  their  liberty, 

Pray  ke.p  it  if  you  can. 

When  you  get  to  de  age  of  twenty  or  twenty-three, 
Don't  go  to  de  penitentiary!" 

Here  Ahashuerus  stirred  jealously.  "I  know 
one  'bout  de  Titanic,  Mistis, "  he  suggested. 

"All  right,  give  it  to  us, "  I  said.  "But  wait  a 
minute  till  I  get  some  phonograph  records  and 
capture  these  songs  for  the  folklore  society. " 

Presently  the  rolling  melodies  poured  into  the 
machine. 

"It  was  in  the  year  nineteen  hundred  an'  twelve, 

On  April  the  fourteenth  day, 
When  de  great  Titanic  struck  a  iceberg, 
An'  de  people  hab  to  run  an'  pray. 

CHORUS  : 

God  moved  on  de  waters,  God  moved  on  de  waters, 

God  moved  on  de  waters, 

An'  de  people  had  to  run'  an'  pray. 

While  the  guards  who  had  been  watchin'. 

Were  asleep  fo'  dey  was  tired, 
Dey  heard  de  great  excitement, 

An'  many  guns  was  fired. 

CHORUS  : 


306  Jfrom  a  &outbern 


Some  people  had  to  leabe  dey  happy  homes, 

An'  all  dat  dey  possessed. 
Lawd  Jesus,  will  you  hear  us, 

Hear  us  in  our  distress? 

CHORUS  : 

When  de  captain  gib  his  orders, 
It  was  women  an'  children  first; 

Many  lifeboats  was  let  down, 
An'  many  libes  was  crushed. 

CHORUS  : 

Some  women  had  to  leave  dey  loved  ones, 

An'  flee  fo'  de  safest  place. 
But  when  dey  seen  dey  loved  ones  drown, 

Dey  hearts  did  almost  break. 

CHORUS  : 

The  survivors  in  general  did  escape  to  de  Ian', 

Dey  lives  dey  tried  to  save. 
But  de  torture  an'  de  price  dey  paid  fo'  life 

Is  a  warnin'  to  ebery  man  brave. 

CHORUS  : 

Watchers'  hearts  on  de  boats  was  touched, 
An'  dey  eyes  was  moved  to  tears, 

When  widows  inquired  ob  dey  loved  ones, 
Wid  nothin'  in  dey  hearts  but  fears. 

CHORUS  : 


i&afUerp  307 


It's  bes'  to  stay  away  fum  de  ocean, 

De  dry  ol'  Ian'  am  de  best. 
Fo'  den  you  don't  get  drownded, 

When  you  lay  down  to  rest." 

CHORUS  : 

"I  know  one  'bouten  de  Titanic,  too!"  broke  in 
Jake. 

"Let  us  have  it, "  I  responded,  and  he  tuned  his 
banjo  again. 

"Come,  all  you  people,  ef  you  want  to  know 
Something  dat  happened  not  so  long  ago. 
I  guess  yo'  heard  bout  dat  misteree, 
Bout  de  Titanic  sankin'  in  de  deep,  blue  sea. 
Dey  was  people  on  dat  ship 
Had  Elgin  movement  in  dey  hip. 
Captain  Smith  had  de  worry-blues. 
I  got  de  Titanic  movement  in  my  hip, 
Wid  a  twenty-year  guarantee. 
I  ain't  good-lookin'  an'  I  don't  dress  fine, 
But  I  angles  in  my  hips,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  take  my 
time!" 

A  new  voice  crisped  in  on  Jake's  song,  as  a 
sprucely  dressed  specter  pointed  index  finger  at 
the  ban  joist.  ' '  That  darkey  ought  to  have  lessons 
from  an  efficiency  expert.  He  wastes  half  his 
motions  picking  the  banjo.  He  could  get  twice 


3o8  Jfrom  a  £>outf)ern  JDorclj 

as  much  tune  for  the  same  amount  of  energy,  if  he 
didn't  sway  back  and  forth,  and  pat  his  feet,  and 
roll  his  eyes  as  he  does. " 

"Are  you  an  efficiency  expert?"  I  asked. 

"Yes.  I  am  carrying  over  into  the  other  side 
the  modern  American  business  methods.  There's 
been  too  much  waste  haunting  in  the  past,  but 
I'm  revolutionizing  the  ghost  world.  In  these 
days,  what  with  his  general  haunting,  as  well  as 
attending  those  meetings  of  the  Spiritualists,  and 
the  Psychical  Research  societies,  the  modern  ghost 
is  overworked.  He  has  no  time  to  loaf.  The 
person  that  thinks  of  the  hereafter  as  a  long  rest 
misses  his  guess.  Nowadays  the  ghost  sees  his 
duty  and  does  it  promptly,  and  there's  no  shilly 
shallying  about  his  methods.  He  is  getting  up  on 
the  knowledge  of  efficiency  and  conserves  his 
energy,  so  he  makes  no  false  motions.  I  expect  to 
improve  on  the  mortal  methods  presently,  and 
then  I'm  coming  back  to  haunt  business  offices  and 
factories  on  earth,  to  make  them  reform. " 

"  It's  interesting  to  know  that  you  have  such 
liberty  of  motion,"  I  commented.  "The  old- 
fashioned  ghosts  were  tied  at  home  more. " 

"That  wouldn't  be  possible  now,"  he  said. 
"Because,  suppose  we  were  restricted  to  certain 


309 


houses  as  in  the  past?  Modern  houses  are  torn 
down  so  quickly,  and  where  would  the  poor  ghosts 
be  then  ?  Neither  could  we  haunt  certain  families, 
for  people  move  about  so  much  now  and  never  stay 
in  the  same  place. " 

I  heard  a  scuffling  over  in  a  dark  corner,  and  saw 
two  ghosts  pummeling  each  other  vigorously. 

"Come!  Come!"  I  cried.  "Who  are  you,  and 
what  are  you  fighting  about?" 

"We  are  a  duplex  personality  ghost, "  they  said 
in  a  sulky  voice.  "And  we  don't  get  along  well 
together." 

' '  Obviously  not, ' '  I  retorted.  ' '  Are  there  many 
of  your  kind?" 

"Oh,  yes, "  they  answered,  glaring  at  each  other. 
"There  are  even  some  multiple  ghosts,  which  are 
worse  off.  Some  complex  people  now  insist  on 
having  half  a  dozen  ghosts. " 

"I  wonder  what  sort  of  living  man  you  were," 
I  mused.  "I'm  always  looking  at  people  and 
wondering  what  sort  of  ghosts  they  will  make,  and 
now  it  is  the  other  way  about. " 

"It's  like  having  two  suits  of  clothes, "  answered 
the  duplex.  "Nobody  wants  to  wear  the  same 
personality  all  the  time.  Some  folks  have  ghosts 
to  suit  all  their  moods." 


310  jFrom  a  ^outfjern 


I  had  noticed  a  little  girl  ghost  who  sat  in  the 
corner  without  speaking,  silently  wiping  her  eyes. 

"Who  are  you,  dear,  and  what  are  you  crying 
for?"  I  asked  her  solicitously. 

"I  don't  like  to  tell,"  she  whimpered.  "I've 
always  felt  unnatural,  but  I  couldn't  help  myself!" 

"What  did  you  die  of,  child?" 

'  '  I  was  worked  to  death  !  '  '  she  sobbed.  '  '  Every 
body  made  me  work.  Day  and  night  I  had  to 
slave,  doing  things  no  child  is  expected  to  do.  I 
had  to  look  after  grown  people  and  run  things  in 
general,  and  reform  the  world,  instead  of  just  being 
a  natural  child.  It  killed  me!"  She  burst  into  a 
wail  of  rebellion. 

"Where  did  you  live?"  I  insisted. 

She  leaned  over  the  porch  edge  to  let  her  tears 
drip  down  on  the  flower  bed.  "I  didn't  really  live 
anywhere.  I  was  just  in  books.  I  was  the 
gla-a-ad  child!  And  I'm  glad  I'm  dead!" 

"I  agree  with  you!"  I  cried.  "You  were  an 
unnatural  little  prig,  and  it's  to  be  hoped  you're 
very  dead!" 

The  scholar  stirred  pensively  in  his  easy-chair. 
"It  strikes  me,"  he  observed  thoughtfully,  "that 
a  number  of  other  literary  types  have  been  done  to 
death.  But  the  public  doesn't  know  it,  so  they 


311 


have  to  go  on,  making  a  false  show  of  life.  I  think 
this  ghost  congress  in  session  should  take  steps  to 
insist  on  the  rights  of  dead  things  to  be  dead. " 

"For  instance?"  I  asked  with  interest. 

"Well,  the  compulsory  happy  ending  to  the 
American  short  story,  for  one  thing,  and  for  an 
other,  the  dismal  end  to  the  Russian  story.  No 
wonder  the  Russians  have  had  revolution  after 
revolution,  if  that  is  what  they  have  been  fed 
up  on." 

"You're  right,"  brisked  the  efficiency  expert. 
"Now,  what  we  need  to  do  is  to  appoint  a  com 
mittee  of  the  whole  to  haunt  the  editors,  and  who 
ever  is  responsible  for  such  practices.  Editorial 
pillows  are  accessible  to  ghosts. " 

At  that,  all  the  ghosts  who  had  ever  tried  to 
write  a  short  story — and  most  of  them  had ! — rose 
in  concert,  clamoring  to  be  appointed  to  go  at 
once.  They  made  so  much  noise  that  the  hounds 
came  rushing  out  of  their  kennel,  ululating  joy 
ously,  in  the  hope  that  a  fox  hunt  was  being  started. 
When  the  pack  reached  the  front  of  the  house  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  personnel  of  the  party, 
they  put  their  terrified  tails  between  their  legs  and 
howled  back  to  the  kennel. 

When  the  clamor  had  subsided,  Dave  Billings 


312  Jfrom  a  g>otitJjern 


remarked  mournfully,  "Dogs  don't  like  us.  But 
that  there  bird,  now,  he  says  this  is  his  kind  of 
party." 

And  the  little  screech  owl,  sitting  in  the  oak 
tree  by  the  porch,  tremuloed  grievously  that  it 
did. 

'  '  Ghosts  has  a  hard  time  in  these  days,  "  gloomed 
the  overalls.  "It's  worse  in  cities  than  in  the 
country,  even.  All  the  big  houses  now  employ 
ghost  exterminators  who  keep  ghosts  out  of  a 
building,  just  as  they  do  vermin  exterminators. 
Insurance  companies  will  insure  against  being 
haunted  too,  though  the  rates  are  pretty  high.  " 

"It's  hard  being  hunted  about  as  we  are," 
agreed  the  frozen  spirit.  "People  hate  us  as  they 
do  germs.  There  should  be  an  asylum  for  infirm 
and  dependent  spooks.  " 

"I've  always  wondered  if  a  germ  didn't  feel 
sensitive,"  I  mused.  "It  must  be  dreadful  to 
know  that  people  boil  themselves  to  avoid  contact 
with  you." 

"And  another  thing  there  ought  to  be  is  a  ghost 
exchange,  "  growled  the  pipe.  "This  thing  of  for 
ever  being  yourself  gets  my  ghost.  " 

"Yes,  why  can't  we  socialize  and  swap  haunts 
at  will?"  agreed  the  soap  box. 


$orcfj  Hattler?  313 


"Don't  ask  me  to  exchange  personalities  with 
you!"  the  flannelette  nightgown  said  coldly. 

"No,  lady,  I  won't,"  he  grunted  sarcastically. 

"That  idea  appears  to  me  a  feasible  one," 
meditated  the  scholar.  "A  general  transfer  of 
ghosts  after  death  would  be  satisfactory.  Per 
sons  who  in  life  have  yearned  to  be  different — and 
who  hasn't? — could  change  their  temperaments. 
Meek  little  rabbity  men  could  be  prize  fighters, 
and  hen-pecked  husbands  could  be  wife  beaters. 
One-legged  men  could  win  Marathon  races,  and 
homely  women  could  become  beauties." 

"Sir!"  broke  in  the  spinster.  "Are  your  re 
marks  intended  to  be  personal?" 

"Oh,  no,  madam!"  he  assured  her,  with  one 
imperturbable  glance  at  her  face. 

I  looked  about  hastily  for  some  excuse  for  in 
terruption,  and  spied  a  harassed-looking  shade 
sitting  by  himself  on  the  edge  of  a  chair. 

"I  don't  believe  I  have  heard  your  death  his 
tory,"  I  said. 

He  glanced  uneasily  about  him.  "I'm  haunted 
by  a  living  person!"  he  whispered,  in  frightened 
tones. 

4 '  Tell  me  about  it ! "  I  exclaimed.  ' '  That's  most 
extraordinary. " 


314  Jfrorn  a  Hboutfjern 


"It's  very  irregular,"  he  agreed  dolefully. 
''He's  a  reporter  for  a  yellow  newspaper,  and  he 
wants  to  interview  a  ghost.  He  haunts  me  night 
and  day.  I  can't  lie  down  in  the  day  to  sleep  that 
I  don't  wake  to  find  him  squatting  by  my  pillow. 
I  won't  be  written  up  in  his  wretched  sheet!  I 
won't!  I  won't!" 

"What  do  you  do  when  he  speaks  to  you?"  I 
asked  sympathetically. 

"I  pretend  I'm  a  deaf  and  dumb  ghost.  I  talk 
on  my  fingers  to  him.  But  he's  off  now  learning 
the  finger  alphabet,  and  whatever  shall  I  do  when 
he  comes  back?  I  don't  really  know  the  alphabet 
myself,  though,"  he  concluded  with  a  shade  of 
hopefulness. 

"He's  liable  to  hunt  up  the  ghost  of  a  fountain- 
pen  and  ask  you  to  write  to  him,"  pessimistically 
put  in  the  aristocrat. 

"Fountain  pens  don't  have  ghosts.  They're 
devils,"  the  scholar  answered  emphatically. 

"Jake,  rattle  your  banjo  and  give  us  another 
little  tune  to  cheer  this  friend  up,  "  I  suggested. 

"I  don'  reckon  you  ever  played  craps,  is  you, 
Mistis?"  Jake  asked. 

"No,"  I  answered.     "Tell  me  about  it." 

"Wellum,    hit's    disaway.    When    we    throws 


3&atUerp  315 


craps  an'  hit  falls  de  same  fo'  you  an'  fo'  me,  we 
calls  hit  a  hawss  an'  a  hawss.  Yas'm,  I  don'  know 
what  dat  means.  Hit's  jes'  a  term  o'  speakin'. 
When  hit's  mo'  fo'  one  dan  fo'  de  odder,  we  says 
hit's  a  hawss  on  me,  or  on  you. " 

"A  hawss  an*  a  flea  an'  a  little  mice 

Was  settin'  in  de  corner  shakin'  dice. 
De  hawss  foot  slipped,  an'  he  fell  on  de  flea. 
De  flea  say,  '  Dat's  a  hawss  on  me!' " 

Dave  Billings  sprang  up  briskly,  saying,  "I 
move  we  shove  these  chairs  back  and  have  a  dance. 
No  telling  what  time  we'll  ever  get  together  at  a 
party  again,  and  we  better  make  hay  while  the 
moon  shines.  Jake  and  Ahash,  stir  up  some  jig 
for  us,  and  let's  have  a  time. " 

He  clutched  the  spinster  round  the  waist  and 
fairly  swung  her  off  her  feet,  as  Jake  and  Ahash 
struck  up  the  tune  of 

"Chicken  in  de  bread  tray, 
Pickin'  up  de  dough. 
Granny,  will  your  dog  bite? 
No,  chile,  no!" 

Dave's  dancing  was  a  joyous  sight.  He  would 
spring  up  into  the  air  at  intervals,  cracking  his 


316  Jfrom  a  g>outf)ern 


heels  together,  and  making  the  little  bells  jingle 
merrily.  The  whole  party  was  on  the  floor  as 
"Weevily  Wheat"  sounded,  and  when  Jake  and 
Ahash  played  '  '  Skip-to-my-Lou  "  the  excitement 
was  intensified.  The  Garfield  ghost  and  the  glad 
child  mingled  their  tears,  and  the  subway  shade 
danced  alone,  being  too  diaphanous  for  even  ghostly 
touch. 

As  a  pause  came  in  the  music,  Dave  Billings 
wiped  the  cold  perspiration  from  his  face  with  a 
red  handkerchief,  and  said,  "It's  getting  late. 
We'd  better  stir  the  dust  toward  home.  " 

"The  tyranny  of  the  dark,  the  autocratic  rule 
of  ghost  curfew  is  abolished  now.  Shades  may 
come  out  when  they  please,  "  argued  the  scholar. 

"And  anyhow,  there's  no  reliability  to  be  placed 
on  the  clocks  any  more,  "  complained  the  spinster. 
"They  skip  a  whole  hour  or  drop  back  one  most 
curiously.  Sometimes,  when  I  come  out  at  twelve 
o'clock  to  haunt,  I  find  it's  only  eleven  by  the 
clock,  and  people  are  still  awake.  And  other  times 
when  I've  started  home  at  cock-crow,  I've  found 
myself  on  the  streets  in  my  nightgown  when  people 
were  starting  out.  It's  like  those  wretched  dreams 
that  living  people  have.  " 

"Anyhow,  it's  time  we  went  home  and  let  this 


317 


lady  get  some  sleep,"  insisted  Dave.  "If  we 
wait  much  longer  it'll  be  too  light  for  us  to  see  the 
way  home.  I  pretty  near  stepped  on  a  frog  as  it 
was,  comin'  up  the  hill." 

'  '  What  sort  of  frog  ?  "     I  sprang  up  excitedly. 
"Smallish  kind  of  ord'nary  little  frog,  "  returned 
Dave.     "It  hopped  in  front  of  me  all  the  way  up 
the  hill." 

"Did  it  have  a  little  hair  line  of  white  down  the 
middle  of  its  back?  And  could  it  walk  as  well  as 
hop?  Was  it  a  friendly  little  frog?"  I  cried  in 
agitation. 

"Search  me!"     Dave  looked  blank. 
"Oh,  I  thought  maybe  it  was  a  little  frog  that  I 
loved  very  much  once.     I  thought  maybe  it  had 
come  back  with  the  rest  of  you,  because,  you  see, 
it's  a  little  dead  frog." 

Dave  looked  embarrassed.  "I'd  a  cotched  it 
for  you  if  I'd  known  you  wanted  it.  " 

"Show  me  where  you  saw  it  last!"  I  cried 
eagerly. 

He  led  the  way  to  the  shadowy  shrubbery,  where 
I  looked  longingly  into  the  boskage,  calling,  "Nip, 
oh,  Nip!" 

But  no  answer  came. 

The  screech  owl  whimpered  piteously  above  me 


318  Jfrom  a  £>outfjent  Jporcfj 

as  I  searched  in  vain,  and  far  back  in  the  kennel 
the  hounds  howled  lugubriously. 

' '  Come  on  away,  you  guys,  an'  let  the  lady  find 
her  frog, "  gruff ed  the  pipe. 

''Good-bye!"  they  called  softly  to  me,  as  they 
passed  down  the  walk. 

'  *  Come  again ! "  I  called,  at  which  they  chorused, 
"We  will!" 

"Thank  you  for  a  pleasant  evening!"  called  the 
spinster. 

"Count  on  a  woman's  getting  the  ghost  of  the 
last  word!"  growled  the  soap  box. 

Dave  Billings  herded  his  ghosts  together  and 
drove  them  before  him  down  the  hill,  shouting : 

"Git  along,  little  dogies! 
Quit  your  milling  around!" 

As  I  still  searched  futilely  among  the  bushes,  I 
could  hear  an  eerie  echo  from  away  over  by  the 
lake,  the  crooning  of  a  cowboy  ballad: 

"Bury  me  not  on  the  lone  prairie, 
Where  the  wild  coyote  shall  howl  over  me!" 


-* 

07 


TO  DBSK^  Jg*, 

LOAN  DEPT. 


QCT    3197 


D    O  o 


3  1977 

•  


LD2lA-10m-8,'73 
R1902S1  0)476— A-31 


General  Library 

University  of  Californu 

Berkeley 


YB 


M277384 


f 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


